Brotherly Discord
by Aimless Traveler
Summary: In the aftermath of Sam's brutality while under the influence of demon blood, Dean struggles to reconnect with his brother and with the prospect of having to face the ever-nearing apocalypse without a certain angel. AU, sequel to 'Deterioration of Reason'
1. Deal

_A/N: Here's the awaited sequel to 'Deterioration of Reason'! It __**does not **__pick up __**directly**__ where the previous story left off. I'll be incorporating scenes from the last episodes of the season into the plot. Enjoy! _

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke_

The heavens spanned their length across the wide expanse of open space, canopying everything below in a soft glow that reflected off of the black and gold carpeting and upholstery, shining against polished china and reflecting against the panoramic windows that displayed the breathtaking view of the glittering city below. Soft strains of a harpist accompanied by the melodies of a piano floated throughout the upscale eatery, chords weaving in and out of the straight-backed, impeccably dressed staff and the elegantly dressed diners. Couples waltzed on the conveniently placed dance floor in the middle of the restaurant, black oxfords and heels gliding over white marble.

Decadent aromas filled the air, somehow mingling in with the scent of rosewater and lavender that permeated throughout the interior. Stark white canvases of plates were uncovered to reveal the masterpiece of foie gras atop mixed greens beneath; mussels sautéed in herb-white wine reduction simmered with tantalizing flavor. Silver cutlery slid into grilled swordfish topped with truffle shavings before the entire meal was finished off with the crème anglaise and dark chocolate ganache of a chocolate pecan torte or the delectable airiness of the glorious signature Grand Marnier soufflé.

More than several pairs of eyes were not fixed on their plates though, rather, they followed the leggy, slim-figured blonde that sauntered past the clientele and toward the table for two in the very back of the dining room, the one with the best view of the darkening night outside, the one that was always reserved for the most valuable of customers. The patrons glanced at each other and shrugged, they'd never seen this woman before but if she had the clout to secure a seat at the owner's private table, then she was obviously of great importance and was not to be gawked at.

"Evening, madam. Might I interest you-"

"I'll have a glass of the 1999 Château Pétrus," the woman interrupted, but in so smooth a manner that one would've thought it somehow wrong if she had not done so. She paid no attention to the waiter as he hurried away, passing a haughty glance over the entire interior of the restaurant before turning her head to gaze out of the window, mouth pinched shut in what seemed like a mixture of displeasure and uneasiness. Eight light chimes from above sounded out the hour and the blonde clicked her tongue in annoyance, running manicured fingers up and down the stem of the fluted glass, swirling the white wine around as she waited.

"Château Pétrus?" came a suave, tenor voice from behind and she started despite herself, turning to pin the man with an even stare as he walked around the table and took a seat opposite, smoothing out his well-cut, two-button closure Richard James pinstripe suit. "And here I was of the mind that you bore a far more refined palate."

"You know I have selective tastes," she replied as the man signaled the connoisseur over with a mere snap of his fingers.

"What shall it be this evening, Mr. St. James?"

"The 1972 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti."

"Right away, sir."

The woman waited until the monkey-suited portly man had more or less waddled away before turning back to her partner with a smirk. "Saint James? Really? You hated that son of a bitch." She gave the man who sat before her a silent and thorough appraisal, running her eyes critically over the high cheekbones and aristocratic nose, at the clean-shaven cheeks that spoke of youth and the sun-kissed hair styled with the bangs sliding across his forehead to overshadow cold, clear grey eyes. "You're looking well," she noted, "considering the…_trip_ you just took."

"I'm sure you didn't come just to inquire as to my travels." The cold eyes surveyed her with just as much intensity over the rim of the wineglass and it took a bit of self-control for her not to squirm uncomfortably under the scrutinizing gaze.

"What if I just wanted to drop in for a visit? We haven't seen each other in a while and maybe I wanted to make sure you weren't getting lonely."

A chuckle rolled past the man's lips, but the grey orbs rolling back in his head offset the charming laugh and he leaned forward with an air of definite danger behind the lavender tie and two-hundred dollar Guy Rover striped broadcloth shirt. "What is it you want?" The words were polished, the accent debonair, but the tone held a warning.

Lilith leaned forth as well, all vain attempts at humor gone as urgency crossed the features of the woman she was wearing. Like a cornered animal, her eyes darted to the right and to the left as if checking for an unseen predator before the demon opened her mouth, voice dropping to a low whisper.

"I need your help."

* * *

Small but measured steps moved over the slime-slick gravel of the alleyway as the petite figure walked slowly along under the shadowed moon which threw silver beams over the tall buildings, cutting off into shafts of misting light that dimly lit the path. A chilly breeze swept through the backstreet, catching up debris strewn about and swirling pieces of rubbish up into the air but it seemed to have no effect upon the individual at all.

She halted suddenly, slim silhouette standing still against the ground. Calmly, without the slightest indication of alarm or apprehension, Marie lifted a hand and gave a small flick of her wrist- sending the two unpleasantly leering muggers approaching from behind smashing into the brick walls on either side. Without looking back or missing a beat the young woman resumed walking, heading on out of the shadows of the looming buildings; light footfalls scuffed noiselessly against the rough, eroded wood of the pier extending out into the water.

Anyone could have been able to deduce, and quite effortlessly at that, that there was something wrong. Whether it was because of the slumped shoulders and defeated posture or overall sense of resignation, it was clear that the dark brown eyes had once glimmered with a brighter light and more happiness than the morose gaze they now focused so intently on the ground. What was invisible to any mere human eye though, was the power the lay behind the seemingly perishable frame, the abounding power vested by the exalted Almighty that now seemed somewhat diminished now as well.

Gabriel strained his ears against the murmurs of the wind blowing in from the east, trying to discern what could have been whispers from Heaven, what could have been news of his brother. The archangel inhaled the spray of sea salt and waited with the night air caressing his face, waited with an unflappable composure because patience was a virtue of righteousness-

There was nothing.

Leaning against the paint-chipped, rickety railing of the gently rocking pier, Gabriel screwed his jaw shut in an effort to chase away the sharp pain that sent its fiery tendrils shooting across his vessel's chest and down into the pit of the stomach. There was no apparent physical cause for the discomfort and so yet once again the archangel clenched his eyes tightly, repeating over and over in his mind that _it was the right thing to do. _

Yes, it was the right thing to do because he was not his own master; he was Gabriel, a soldier of the Lord and messenger of God's Word. Since he'd made the decision to descend from Heaven down onto the Earth, he was to stay until called back by the Almighty Himself. Gabriel knew that his duty was to follow all commands from Heaven no matter how he felt about them, no matter as to the black guilt that now clawed at his soul in constant torment. It had been an order from above and the archangel had been compelled to obey.

"_Heaven, Hell, my ass! I don't give a flying __**fuck**__ where the order comes from!" The hazel green-turned emerald that stared furiously at him held more than a shred of desperation, panic and angry fear. "Does Cas mean so much less to you than some divine command? Oh yeah, hell of a brother you are-"_

Marie's features twisted in what looked like a cross between frustration and shame; she turned in a whirl of abrupt movement and slammed her both hands against the railing, hard. Once, twice, and again until the palms and knuckles were red and raw, until Gabriel finally curled fingers around the rusted handrail, clenching it tight with a long, vain attempt at a controlled exhale of breath.

Bloodshot brown eyes overshadowed with silver gazed morosely into the rippling surface of the water that not a moment ago had been funneling and crashing in upon itself like a whirlpool as the archangel tried to regain a sense of bearing. Maintaining a neutral composure had become an increasingly difficult task lately, but Gabriel reminded himself that the nurse he was inhabiting was a righteous woman and she most certainly did not deserve to undergo what happened to his previous vessel. But then again, neither had young Alexander Marlow who'd been an unfortunate victim of the good fight.

If it really was the good fight though, did the struggle really warrant any casualties at all?

_The fields of the Lord were stirring with disquietude; anxious whispers traveled throughout the hallowed halls of Paradise as the word was spread from the Earth up even to the highest of the Seraphim. It was slightly ironic that the messenger who stood at the Lord's left hand was the last to hear of the news, although it was probably very likely because none of the other members of the heavenly host wished to be the one harboring the disturbing information. No one wanted to face the archangel when he was told that the younger brother for whom he'd always shown more compassionate of a sense of overbearing protectiveness than any other had been captured for sacrifice._

_Gabriel's silver eyes flashed with a driving force but his commanding voice was flat, countenance stoic. "What__is this thou speakest of?"_

_The angels exchanged wordless glances because Heaven's exalted messenger's tone was deadly calm and wonders of wonders, he'd more or less demanded clarification although it was obviously clear that such repetition was not necessary. The archangel was not satisfied with the uncomfortable silence though and his wings expanded to their full span, casting an enormous shadow in the light of Heaven to match his frighteningly darkening features. _

"_Peace, brother," came a much less noble voice, one that aimed to command as much authority as the archangel, but failing. Zachariah did have a certain presence however; something that made the others part for him to step forth. "The seal will not be broken."_

_The archangel was not appeased, and it showed all too clearly. "Sex Diluculo ac Hora calls for the removal of the grace one of our own. You are Castiel's direct overseer and whom I charge for his safety." His voice, instead of augmenting in volume, dropped an octave lower. "What have you to say for your oversight?"_

_The other's features immediately soured, but his face was passive. "Uriel-"_

"_I spoke not of Uriel. What have __**you**__ to say?" Gabriel took a step forward; the forbidding gesture was not lost on the other angels who murmured amongst themselves uneasily. The last time God's messenger showed such expressive disappointment- and dare it be labeled as vexation? - had been in the Great Battle for Heaven. While few had actually witnessed it when Michael cast the rebellious one of wickedness from the halls of the Holy Father, being too occupied with attempting to strike down the forces of evil, there was no doubt that all remembered when Gabriel struck down Lucifer's second in command with stunning brutality. Whereas the others lost their angelic appendages in the Fall from Heaven, the archangel had violently ripped Belial's wings from his back, shaming the fallen one forevermore. Crossing the Lord's messenger was not a wise idea. "You do not speak the entire truth."_

_Zachariah chose his words carefully, not wishing to provoke the other any further. "The servants of evil have captured Castiel and taken him down into the Pit." He stood motionless as a swift gust of air moved past, indicating the archangel's swift movement, rather choosing to speak again. "The matter has already been taken care of Gabriel; you cannot leave your post-"_

"_**Thou hast yet to answer for thy ineptitude**__." This time, the voice rung out in the far corners of Heaven and all took notice, turning to witness the archangel bearing down upon Zachariah, power and might made all the more intimidating by the subtle evidence of antagonism between the two. "Do __**not**__ attempt to impose orders concerning my duties or what I can or cannot do for my brother." Gabriel's voice once again dipped low with menacing implications. "I answer to no one but Almighty God."_

_As Gabriel moved away with an air of definite urgency, Zachariah's eyes narrowed threateningly at the archangel's back…_

_Alexander Marlow nervously adjusted the gold tie looped around his neck as he stared at his reflection, inspecting the spotless white suit he wore. When his sister had seen him at the fitting, she'd immediately changed the entire color scheme of the wedding because she thought that he looked like he was going to a funeral in the black, penguin-like attire. Of course whatever the bride wanted was the way things turned out to be and so here he was, paranoid that if he took one wrong step, something would sully the pristine ensemble. _

_Flicking a glance at his watch, the young man swore quietly under his breath. Karen was going to kill him if he was late for her rehearsal dinner. Crossing over to the bed, a smile crossed his features as he leaned over and pressed a loving kiss to his wife's forehead, rousing her from sleep in the process. _

"_Alex?" she yawned, blinking blearily up at her husband. "Don't you look handsome," she teased. "Are you going out now?"_

"_Yeah. Are you sure you're going to be alright alone?" _

"_Oh, just go; I'll be fine." Nina gently touched her husband's cheek. "Tell Karen I'm sorry I couldn't make it, okay? Hopefully a little rest will persuade this one to settle down too." She patted her swollen belly and Alex laid a hand over hers, feeling the kick of his unborn child, prompting an affectionate grin from the father-to-be._

"_You be good for your mother now," he said with mock sternness, then kissed his wife again. "I'll be back in a few hours. Don't wait up." _

"_Love you," Nina mumbled sleepily, watching Alex walk out of the room and clatter down the stairs before falling back into a slumber so deep she didn't hear the static of the television turning itself on, didn't see the bright light flooding the interior of the downstairs area, didn't realize when her husband was taken away for Heaven's use. _

_The man that opened the front door of the Marlow residence was not a man on his way to his younger sister's wedding rehearsal; there was absolutely nothing written in his suddenly blank face and silver in his green eyes._

He blinked and unclenched his fists, releasing the railing with a deep breath. Heaven's sons of fire were fierce warriors; they had to be, harboring the ability to fight past the point of exhaustion. For some unknown reason though, Gabriel was… weary. Taking a deep breath, the archangel hung his head. This Earth, although good because it was one of God's creations, was nothing compared to being in the Father's presence and he found himself longing to be back in Heaven- but a frown creased Gabriel's brow. He'd been away from home for quite some time now, several months, if he remembered correctly. In his absence, there was something that had changed in the nature of the words that came from Heaven, something unsettling-

_Gabriel._

As he listened, the frown grew deeper and the archangel raised his head, eyes hard. The water below swelled in a huge crest, coating everything with its fine spray and before the tsunami-like wave fell onto the pier, an angry whisper sounded out into the silence: _"Belial."_ The wall of water crashed against the wood, where not a moment earlier there'd been a solitary form standing against the darkness of the night.

* * *

The man sat back and arched an eyebrow. "You pose an interesting request." He brought the wineglass to his lips and sipped slowly, eyes wandering off out the window and into the distance. Silence hung in the air about the duo then; the sounds of silverware clinking against plates and the dull chatter of the other diners seemed far away. Still, the man did not speak.

Lilith hissed in impatience, displeasure, and perhaps just a hint of desperation. She had known the other for far too long to not know what his silences meant. "I said I would make it worth your while!"

"I highly doubt it, my dear. And now that you have thoroughly wasted my time, I believe the hour now permits you to say good night."

"Don't pretend like you haven't enjoyed being out of his shadow!" The demon cut in, voice rising with her mounting frustration. "I _saw_ you Belial; you were the first one out when the gate in Wyoming was cracked open. We both know that if he rises, everyone loses."

Belial sighed in mock pity, rolling his eyes in a decidedly dignified manner. "Poor young lass, you really knew nothing of the end game, did you?" Turning his head slightly, he caught the eye of the maitre d' and nodded once for the check. "And now here you are, grasping at straws; trying to tempt the lord of lies himself." The demon chortled derisively and stood, straightening the lapels of his suit.

She was on him in an instant, fingers clenched around his arm and digging into the rich cloth, staring up at him with an expression of half-anger, half-pleading. "Belial-"

He gazed coolly back down at her, unrelenting and unsympathetic. "The final seal must, and will be broken. It has always been that way, even when you were neck-deep in the Pit." She was shaking her head no, but Belial grasped the other's chin and moved her head up and down in a nodding motion with a smirk. "You must have thought you were going to score some major points with the man himself, didn't you? Freeing him from his cage and all. Well, now little Lilith don't want to die, but you _are_ going to regardless, and for the sake of raising Lucifer himself."

Pushing the blonde backwards, the demon plucked her fingers away from his arm and sat her down at the table again. "You are due for a painful end at the hands of Sam Winchester my dear, and I've seen the boy's viciousness firsthand. So enjoy your last days before he catches up to you; sit, drink all you like and as your gracious host, Mr. St. James will gladly foot the bill for you. Farewell."

Lilith sat there, speechlessly staring at the other demon's retreating back. After a moment the shock melted away from her features and she sank back in her chair, laughing. "I know what this is," she called out just loud enough for Belial to hear, gleefully knocking back another glass of wine in half a minute in a most unladylike manner. "You, my friend, are a damn fool."

A black oxford halted mid-step, the heel pressing against the ground with the toe pointed up toward the ceiling. The shoulders visibly stiffened beneath the narrowly set and thinly padded shoulders of the suit; Belial turned with an air of extraordinary calm and strode back toward the table where the blonde lounged back lazily in the chair, smirking cattily up at him. "You would do well to watch that mouth of yours," the demon said in a deceptively pleasant voice. "No one said your tongue had to be attached to the rest of you when Winchester finished you off."

"Seems like the boss has pulled a fast one on you too," Lilith purred. "Did you really think Lucifer meant it when he promised you that blue-eyed angel?" _Bingo._ She knew she would get him with that one.

A shadow crossed over Robert St. James's features, a hint of doubt flashed in his eyes. Slowly, slowly Belial pulled out a chair and sat down again, fixing the demon girl with a suspicious stare. "And what proposition would you offer?"

* * *

_He cradled the broken body protectively, eyes shut tight against the reality of it all, wishing and hoping with all his might that this wasn't real, that none of it was happening. This was too familiar of a position, the situation too painful as he recalled holding his pain in the ass little brother's heavy body after a knife had been stuck in Sam's spine but there was something different about it all this time. Maybe it was the way he could feel the brittle edges of hard bone grinding under his blood-slick hands or how he could barely feel the other's heartbeat through his torn chest but whatever the reason, Dean Winchester was quite certain he'd never felt this desperate before. _

_Where was the ambulance, goddamn it?! He was pretty sure he'd been screaming his lungs out for the past hour or however long he'd been kneeling there in the pounding rain that drove crimson streams forcefully downwards into the rapidly growing pool of blood that signaled the life leaking away from the still form he held in his arms. There was nothing he could do to keep the weakening heart pounding, no words he could uplift to the invisible God above that could magically repair the other's tortured soul- _

"_Dean…"_

_A whisper of breath, but it was a mountain of hope. Dean's head jerked up and he blinked rapidly, hardly daring to believe the angel was still alive but the dulled blue eyes were open, filled with pain and clouded with disorientation but open nonetheless. "Cas?"_

_Trembling lips parted, issuing a dying rasp. "We need…to talk…" One heavy hand lifted and weakly grasped the hunter's arm, leaving a blood smear over the original handprint there and Castiel wheezed painfully, fingers tightening like the first time he'd laid a hand on the elder Winchester to drag him from the bowels of Hell. "You have to know-"_

_Dean almost gave a crazed, maniacal laugh of disbelief but it came out as a strangled sob because Castiel was dying here, and he was putting his energy into stating that they had to __**talk**__? The angel's eyes were rolling back in his head though; his hold fell slack and Dean's stomach bottomed out. Frantically, he shook the other with the strength of a man possessed because Castiel couldn't die, he couldn't be dead! _

_As he knelt there, something registered in his ears and he frowned for it sound vaguely familiar albeit irritating, a high, long tone that continued incessantly- the sound of a heart monitor going flat_-

He jerked awake, breath catching in his throat, chords in his neck tight with the strain of holding back a shout. Exhaling hard, Dean let his head fall back against the pillow and tried to regulate his breathing. _Inhale, exhale; one-two-three, breathe. Inhale, exhale- _It wasn't working.

With a sigh he sat up and glanced down at his hands, half-expecting to see them bathed in red, as he'd been doing for the past three days after he'd hurtled himself up four flights of stairs and pushed his way past the gaggle of bewildered hospital staff with the whine of the heart monitor in his ears to see an empty hospital bed illuminated by the raging lightning storm outside the window.

_Damn it._ Dean shrugged away his leather jacket and swung his legs over the side of the bed, squinting at the cell phone that lay on the dresser drawer. Sam's trail had gone cold a couple of miles back and Bobby had yet to call regarding the potential whereabouts of the younger Winchester so until then, he was pretty much stuck here.

Scrubbing at his face wearily with the palm of his hand, he turned his head and glanced down at his arm and, after a moment's hesitation, reached down and pulled up the shirtsleeve to reveal the brand that by now had become as normal as any other scar he'd received in all his years of hunting. Dean felt a sense of overwhelming depression weighing down upon him as he stared at the mark. It lay there, red against tanned skin- but that was all it did. There was no sharp, shooting pain, no unbearable stinging or even the slightest flutter of anything, no twinge that gave the slightest indication of the condition of the angel to whom the handprint belonged, the angel who bore so much upon his shoulders for the charge he'd pulled out of Hell.

"_And it is written that the first seal shall be broken when a righteous man sheds blood in Hell. As he breaks, so shall it break…"_

Alastair's twisted, demonic Donald Duck-sounding voice pounded in his brain and bile suddenly rose up in the back of his throat; Dean got to his feet and lurched in the direction of the bathroom, grasping and turning the sink faucet handle until the cold water came rushing out into the porcelain bowl. As the hunter splashed his face with the soothing coolness, he lifted his head and stared at his reflection.

He wasn't focusing on his reflection, because he knew full well what would be gazing back at him- the deep bags under haunted, bloodshot eyes, the pinched mouth and tight jaw, the overall haggard countenance. No, when Dean looked at himself, all he could see was the neon sign across his forehead proclaiming him to be the guilty one who'd set this entire mess into motion, he who hadn't the strength nor the will to hold out against the demon's offer while being ripped to pieces in the Pit.

_Could I have prevented all this from happening? _He gritted his teeth and stared down at the water spiraling down the drain; he didn't want to see the face of failure anymore than he wanted to see the face of Castiel's tormentor. But the question plagued his thoughts. _If I was still in Hell…would Sammy have even needed to start guzzling demon blood? _Would Castiel still be up on a cloud somewhere, with all his ribs and grace intact, strumming a harp and being none the wiser?

"_You made an exception for me!" His own voice echoed loudly into the night, insistent and calling for an answer, demanding to know why none of the other good people in the town were granted a second chance and why Tessa had to go around and start collecting again as soon she could. _

_The angel's head turned slightly to face him and Dean found himself pierced by a sapphire gaze that wasn't forcefully commanding, imposing, or resolute as they'd been on every other occasion; instead, the gaze was compassionate and honest, gentle, even. "You're different."_

Dean shook his head hard. _No, Castiel. You're wrong; I'm not different. _He was no different from anyone else because he wasn't like his father, he wasn't made of the stuff of heroes, and he simply wasn't strong enough. He didn't even have the power to kill Alastair; Sam had to carry out that task and in the process had become someone, become _something_ that Dean didn't recognize. _I can't do it, Cas. It's too big. _The hunter felt hot tears welling up in his eyes and hurriedly splashed more water onto his face. _It's not me Heaven wants; I'm not the man either of our dads wanted me to be._

"_For what it's worth… I would give anything not to have you do this."_

Castiel wasn't here though. The angel wasn't here to hear his protests and Dean slammed his fist into the wall, remembering the other's tone of sincere regret and deep-rooted weariness. Castiel had more than the weight of the world upon his shoulders, having to fight the demons while getting slapped on the wrist by his bastard superiors, whoever they were, and putting up with one very reluctant hunter. In the end, the angel gave his very _life_- and still Dean had failed. _Does that mean everything he did for the sake of the fight, for my neck…was worthless?_

_Bzzz. Bzzzzzz._

His hand was still wet and the faucet was still running but Dean didn't care as he grabbed the phone and flipped it open. "Yeah."

"_Coldspring, North Dakota. It's lighting up with demon signs and I'm betting that's where Sam's headed."_

"It's a good place to look." He was already jamming his feet into his boots and shrugging on his jacket as he mumbled into the phone. "I'm on my way."

"_Hey, listen."_ Bobby's gruff voice crackled over the line and Dean paused with a mental groan because he knew that tone, the 'I'm about to say something you don't want to hear' tone that he knew all too well because John used to use it too. _Don't start, Bobby._

"What?"

"_Us finding Sam…that's got to be about getting him back, not pushing him away." _Dean closed his eyes.

"Right."

"_I know you're mad Dean, and you've got a right to be but…I'm just saying." _The older hunter admonished. _"Be good to him anyway. You gotta get through to him." _

He was pulling the other sleeve of his jacket over his arm when his fingers brushed against the raised ridges of the handprint and Dean's jaw tightened. Pulling the phone away from his ear he ended the call, grabbed his keys and left the room, banging the door hard on his way out.

_A/N: I know, I know that all everyone cares about is what happened to Castiel. Don't worry, that's coming up in the next chapter. I've introduced a significant part of this story's plot from the start and I'd like to know your thoughts. Please review! _


	2. Division

_A/N: Thank you for all the feedback! Now onto the next chapter which runs parallel to episode 4.21. I'm __**so sorry**__ for the late update, but all the same I hope you guys enjoy! _

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke_

It was a longstanding tradition held in common among nearly all peoples of the world, no matter what nationality or culture; a union of individuals that created kinship betwixt them, no matter whether the context was religious, spiritual, or legal- sometimes maybe all three. While some of the common reasons for such of occasion used to involve aspects such as procreation and forming a family or legitimizing sexual relations, since then it fell somewhat from its elevated status to become a topic of great interest only when an Anna Nicole Smith-esque scandal blared across the headlines, or when the bonds of such heartfelt vows were broken and then followed by a bout of squabbling lawyers, served papers, and alimony.

The state of matrimony though, holy or not, was not so much what garnered copious amounts of time and attention as was the ceremony by which it was conducted, namely, the wedding. In Western cultures, many women chose to wear white monstrosities of yards and yards of silk and organza, labeled Vera Wang or Donna Karen, while Chinese brides wore the traditional scarlet cheongsam. It was oftentimes easier for men, who left all the commotion and fuss of color schemes, invitations, and seating arrangements for the women, merely having to show up for fittings and nod their heads in a typical "yes dear" type fashion in instant agreement with their fiancées, soon to be mother-in-laws and wedding planners.

However, what was truly of import at the end of the day, after the organ had sounded the notes of joy and the happy couple had left in a rain of rice and birdseed, after the groom broke glass underfoot to symbolize the continuing sorrow of the Temple in Jerusalem, after the run-through of having something old and new, borrowed or blue- came the honeymoon. And while some vehemently protested the claim, a small part of everyone agreed that the wedding night was what really sealed the deal.

The maid stopped in front of the honeymoon suite, balancing the pile of fresh towels in one hand while reaching out to knock on the door with the other, the customary call of "Housekeeping!" about to leave her lips- when she noticed the 'Do Not Disturb' sign hanging slightly askew on the knob. From within the lavishly decorated chamber came the low murmurs of voices caught up in what could have been a moment passion.

Some of the other members of the staff had been talking about the young man who'd arrived with a dark-haired girl attached firmly to his side, both of them looking somewhat worse for the wear from travel or some other venture. Nevertheless, the youth had been adamant upon having the honeymoon suite, prompting rumors that the two had eloped together and were now on the run from a disapproving father, a rival lover or an overbearing brother but still completely enamored with each other nonetheless. With a fond glance at the band of gold glittering on her own fourth finger and a small smile, the maid passed by on tiptoe, allowing the young lovers inside to revel on in their romance uninterrupted.

"Your appetite's gotten much bigger," Ruby murmured, reaching out a hand and lovingly running her fingers through her companion's thick chestnut hair. Sam lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling, silent and unmoving at her touch. "Don't be afraid; it just means that you're getting stronger, that's all." The demon girl propped herself up on one elbow and leaned closer. "Strong enough to kill Lilith. And just in time too, since the final seals are breaking."

At the hunter's lack of a reaction, Ruby touched the underside of his jaw and turned Sam's face toward her, seeking out his gaze. "Hey. Look at me." The faraway dark brown eyes focused upon her and she smiled reassuringly. "It's okay, Sam. Don't worry about the angels. Wherever they are, they're too busy screwing the pooch to focus on us, but you- you can finish off Lucifer's first and end it all."

Abruptly, Sam's expression twisted and he turned away from her, facing the wall. _Don't worry about the angels._ And how exactly was he supposed to do that when he could still feel Castiel's grace pulsating weakly within his grasp before his fingers clenched inwards and reduced it to nothingness, when he could still see in his mind's eye, the barely contained wrath in Gabriel's threatening gaze?

What really ate away at him though, more than anything else, was the clash of emotions he'd heard in his brother's voice when Dean refused to let him explain, refused to listen to any apology he could've cooked up, refused to even _look_ at him. Sam's chest tightened because Ruby was wrong; it wasn't okay, it wasn't alright and the remembrance of the combination of the raw scrape of pain and anger in Dean's voice made that point all too clear.

"_I said 'not now', okay Sam?!"_

If not then, all the younger Winchester wanted to know was when? When would he be able to reconcile with his brother, to have the other forgive him for what he'd done? Sure, he had been listening half-heartedly to the demon Sunday School story of how Lilith was the first human tempted into becoming a demon and about the lead on her personal chef. Certainly Sam recognized the gravity of the situation, with no more than two or three seals remaining and how close they were to being able to stop the apocalypse itself- but did it matter whether the world burned or thrived if Dean still hated him?

"Oh, Sammy." Ruby rubbed a hand over the hunter's broad shoulders, kneading the tense muscles soothingly. "I know you're hurting and confused, but believe me, all I ever wanted was to help you get Lilith. With Dean… I had no idea things would end up like this."

"He hates me, Ruby," came the barely discernable mumble, full of misery. "I can't undo what I did." _I can't bring Cas back._ The statement resounded bitterly within his mind and Sam tried not to think about how much it stung that Dean was putting an angel above his own brother- because that was what the elder Winchester was doing, wasn't it?

"But you _can_ take down Lilith." He turned back and Ruby smiled at him encouragingly. "The life of an angel for all of humanity." She shrugged. "I'd say it's a pretty fair trade."

_That's not true._ "That's not the point."

"You're right, it's not." The demon grew serious and sat up, moving over to straddle Sam; she loomed over him and stared down with the mixed elements of pleading combined with a demand. "Lilith has more than a couple tricks left up her sleeve but she's scared, and she's desperate. The point is that there isn't a more perfect time to act." She grinned. "Sooner or later, the bitch is going to land herself into something even she can't get out of…and that mistake is going to cost her."

* * *

The restaurant was dark and empty, the diners having left long ago, followed by the world-renown culinary team working in the kitchens and finally the front of the house and staff, leaving only the dapper solitary figure sitting in the back corner of the spacious room, face turned toward the window. The flames of the candles on the table threw dancing shadows upon Robert St. James's features as the man stared contemplatively out at the twinkling lights of the city's nightlife below.

Fingers closed around the stem of the half-filled wineglass sitting next to its rare, vintage bottle that sat on the table alongside the candles; Belial lifted the flute to his lips just as twelve chimes sounded out from above with a near ominous air, as if heralding a great presence that remained unknown. The demon smirked though, unafraid; he anticipated what would happen next and started a mental countdown: _In five, four, three-_

The French double doors of the eatery were massive in height and weight, having been carved by a team of ten woodworkers with a variety of tools and an eight month time limit; now they swung open like the cardboard doors of little children's playhouses, banging against the walls with such force that the delicate lights suspended from the ceiling shook and the glasses hanging in the rack along the bar shuddered, some fell and shattered against the marble floor.

Belial pursed his lips, annoyed. _Always have to make entrances of epic proportions, don't they?_ Fixing a benign smile on his face, the demon stood halfway, calling out toward the shadowed figure standing upon the threshold. "Dear, might I remind you that this dining establishment has a formal dress policy?"

A bolt of lightening touched down from the near-cloudless night sky, flashing upon a slim figure whose Hispanic features framed by chocolate locks, though striking, held no compare to the fierce intensity so clearly displayed there, drawing straight eyebrows toward each other and making dark eyes glint silver. The young woman advanced forward with a powerful presence; tables and chairs in her path instantly flew out of the way toward opposite sides of the room, slamming into the walls.

The lord of lies would have been deceiving himself if he claimed that the slightest of cringes had not passed through his meat puppet's frame, but Belial kept his composure, sitting back down again and raising an eyebrow in acknowledgement. "Gabriel." A smirk broke though the demon's bored expression. "Surprised to see me?"

"I condemned thy wicked soul to the depths of the eternal fire until the Day of Judgment," Gabriel got out brusquely, snapping off each syllable bitterly. Both otherworldly beings knew the words of the next unspoken inquiry- how had the demon defied the will and might of an archangel, eluding captivity from the bowels of Hell?

Long fingers fitted around the flute tapped lightly against the glass, playfully. "Well, I've been doing just wonderful my good sir, how gracious of you to ask. And yourself? I see you've switched meatsuits." Belial tilted his head to the side, frowning slightly in disapproval. Although the suit the angel donned was certainly comely in its own right, it just didn't suit the demon's… _preferences._ "No accounting for taste though, really."

The archangel stopped at the table, standing there stiffly, glaring down and Belial kicked back leisurely with a sly grin. _What's this? _He could sense the emotion radiating off the other in waves, so deeply felt and potent that anyone could have reached out to grasp it: the anger and disgust- but most of all, the guilt. He could tell he didn't have to do much to push Gabriel's buttons; everything was already out in the open, still raw and hurting. The demon's grin widened. _What fun this shall be._ "And how have you been, Gabriel, you old sport? My, you look terrible. How's the family?"

There was no response save for a deep inhale, like the other was making a valiant attempt to stay calm. Belial was not discouraged with the lack of a response though; although demons bore the reputation of being as quick-tempered as an adolescent girl at that time of the month, he was more patient than most. As the archangel stood still, trying to retain the quickly crumbling front of strength and a stoic nature, Belial went in for the kill. "How's Castiel?"

BANG.

Before the final phoneme left his lips he was on the floor, back flat against the cool marble as a booted foot positioned its arch right over his windpipe. The table Belial had been sitting at no more than half a second ago was now haphazardly upturned and at the far side of the restaurant, magnificent teak reduced to splinters of wood. Gabriel made no efforts to disguise his inconsolable emotions this time around, if the archangel's swift and harsh reaction was any indication; the archangel was a heartbeat away from crushing the other's trachea as a deadly hiss of a threat flew from his lips. "You _dare_ to speak of my brother?"

"Ah, I see," Belial chuckled. Though the action proved somewhat difficult, the demon made no move to strike back or even defend himself. "Dear little Cas…" he murmured, reminiscing of crimson trails snaking down its torn, pale canvas, of the tart taste of fear, and of the salt of the angel's tears. "He's still as fuckable as ever, yes?"

Anyone and everyone within a ten-mile radius of Robert St. James's restaurant stopped to gape up at the sky as, in less than an instant, all stars were hidden from sight by black clouds. Although thermostats registered a mild sixty-six degrees Fahrenheit, streams and spouting fountains froze solid; all the water from swimming pools completely evaporated into thin air and the moon concealed its beauty from a spontaneous storm of every single type of condensation as it raged- sleet, snow, rain, hail, swirling together and blasting furiously all over the landscape. However, despite all these signs of supernatural occurrences, none of it compared to the sound of a roar of outrage that could not have come from the mouth of any creature upon God's green Earth.

* * *

He watched the tall, broad-shouldered frame round the corner, the other was completely unaware of his presence and truth be told, Dean wasn't sure if he wanted things to stay that way or not. And what was this cold feeling in the pit of his stomach that made itself known upon seeing the familiar features? Disgust, that his brother had more or less thrown everything away for some demon bitch? Fear, that this hulking stranger lumbering away from him would never again be the Sammy he once knew? Or perhaps the most justified explanation was anger, anger for the chasm between the two of them because of Ruby and her scheming ways. _For what happened to Cas…_

The hunter's jaw set tightly and his fingers curled around the hilt of the demon-killing blade as he slipped into the room noiselessly, heat rushing to his face as soon as he caught glimpse of the demon girl's back; Dean raised the dagger high above his head, ready to end her once and for all-

Ruby twisted around and deflected the wild swipe with her arm so that it slit through the leather of her sleeve instead of piercing through to the heart and, reflexively, she grabbed both of Dean's arms, trying to force the knife away from her. She found herself staring into a pair of determined hazel green eyes that was slowly shifting into a blazing emerald and threatening to burn a hole in the center of her forehead as demon and hunter struggled against each other.

To the casual observer Dean might have only seemed beyond angry, but as a demon, Ruby could sense so much more emotion radiating from him; she could perceive the ammonia of guilt-ridden, murderous intent along with the reek of shame. "What's wrong, Dean?" she asked sweetly, though still straining. "You're not still sore about losing your angel, are you?"

_Losing your angel…_ Dean saw nothing but hazy red for an instant and in a burst of inhuman strength, he shoved Ruby back against a wall, hard. Wrenching his hand free from the demon's grasp, he drove the dagger downwards through the air and the smirk slid away from Ruby's face; she opened her mouth to emit a shriek- "SAMMY!"

"No! Let her go!" A firm grip closed around his fist, prying his fingers from the dagger handle and Dean found himself being shoved away as Sam stood between him and the demon girl, holding a hand out in a placating manner. "Just… take it easy," the younger Winchester huffed, protectively shielding Ruby behind his larger frame.

_Ain't that sweet. And here I thought you didn't like being called that, 'Sammy'. _Dean didn't know he was biting his tongue until he tasted the copper in his mouth. "What is this?" he bit out, tone dripping with sarcasm. "You come when she calls but I have to drive halfway across the goddamn country to find you?"

"Look, let's just talk about this." Dean wanted to laugh. This was just _so_ like Sam, wanting to _talk_ about a situation that could be rectified with turning around and ganking the bitch behind him. The elder Winchester wanted to grab his brother by the shoulders and shake him until his senses finally returned to him- however, he simply replied in as calm a manner as he could.

"As soon as she's dead, we can talk all you want."

Sam backed up a step, keeping his eyes on his brother but made a motion with his hand. Dean's throat tightened and he resisted the urge to throw his clenched fists into the nearest object- that would be his brother- as Ruby made a face at him and then turned, running out of the room. He couldn't hold it back anymore; as soon as the door banged shut, Dean let loose the desperate shout building within his chest. "She's poison, Sam!"

The younger Winchester tried to appear both persuading and understanding at the same time, but it wasn't working. "It's not what you think, Dean-"

"Look what she did to you!" He burst out, cutting the other off. "What, she ups and vanishes weeks at a time, leaves you cracking out for another hit?" _Not to mention turning you into a- _Dean cut off his train of thought right then and there, because he didn't want to even let that possibility brush the corner of his mind.

"She was looking for Lilith!"

"Yeah? And what about the part where she had you ripping an angel open like a hunk of raw meat? She helping you look for Lilith in Cas's back?" Sam flinched at the words that his brother flung at him and Dean gritted his teeth in exasperation. _Don't look guilty; I don't want that from you right now. I just want you to realize what you're turning yourself into!_ " 'Looking for Lilith'," he muttered incredulously. "Sam, that's French for 'manipulating your ass ten ways from Sunday' and you know it; why the hell are you lying to yourself?!"

"Just…listen." Sam could feel his face flushing in shame but he tossed the dagger onto the bed, gesticulating half-heartedly as if he could somehow make Dean see that he was doing this _for him_. Because the angels were wrong, because Dean wasn't strong enough to take on Lilith, because _this was what had to be done._ "Just listen, for a second." _I'm being practical here._ "We got a lead on a demon close to Lilith. Come with us, Dean." His tone was pleading and earnest because at least his brother wasn't refusing to look at him this time. Maybe, just maybe Ruby was right; perhaps he could make up for what happened to Cas by achieving what the angel had been working toward- preventing Lucifer from rising. "We'll do this together."

_Come with us._ That sour taste was back in his mouth again. Dean breathed hard. "That sounds great." _Except when did 'us' become you and Ruby? _Sam's eyebrows were lifting in an expression of disbelief at having convinced the other so easily, but Dean wasn't finished. _Not so fast. _"As long as it's you and me. Demon bitch is a deal breaker." The eyebrows were furrowing, the hope fading fast. "You kiss her goodbye, we can go right now."

"…I can't."

The two words cut deeper than Dean expected. _I can't_. He turned away with a grimace, struggling to keep all of his conflicting emotions in check, inhaling deeply. _Can't what, Sam? Or is it because you don't want to?_

"Dean, I need her. To help me kill Lilith."

_Oh yeah, that's a great reason. You went to Stanford, were going to be some big hotshot lawyer, and that's the best you can come up with?_ Dean exhaled, fixing his eyes on the polished wooden floor, at the stairs leading up to the bed's platform, stared at all the cheesy little romantic details because he didn't want to hear any more of the garbage Sam was spouting. The lies his brother actually seemed to believe. _It's bullshit. You don't __**need**__ anything from the demons, Sam. _

"Look." Sam was staring at his brother's back and he could feel the annoyance beginning to overtake the initial relief and cautious happiness at seeing Dean again. _I'm the only who can do this!_ "My whole life, you take the wheel, you call the shots. And I trust you, because you are my brother." There was a lump in his throat now, threatening to make him choke on his words. The venom in Dean's voice when he dragged up what had happened with Castiel, the accusation in his gaze- and Sam could remember once when such fire would never have appeared in Dean's eyes save for upon the occasion if anyone was stupid enough to threaten the younger Winchester. Oh, he knew what it meant and damn it, it _hurt_.

Was it his fault he hadn't been able to find a way to reverse Dean's contract, was it his fault that _he_ hadn't been the one to pull his brother out of Hell? "Now I'm asking you for once- trust _me_." Sam implored and searched the other's eyes beseechingly when Dean turned around. _I__killed Alastair when they left you to fend for yourself, I know that you're not as strong as you used to be while the angels keep wanting more from you, and excuse me for not being a soldier from Heaven, but I think that me being your __**brother**__ should mean more than some angel!_

He could already see the reply in Dean's tight features though, in the downward turn of the lips and weary resignation in the slight lines at the corners of the hazel green eyes as the other gave his head a simple shake- "no"- and something inside Sam's mind blew out. "You don't know what you're doing, Sam."

"Yes, I do!"

Sam was starting to raise his voice now and Dean read exasperation in his brother's brief eye roll, tense shoulders, and strained voice. What he saw set him over the edge and he was sure he never wanted to punch Sam as much as he did right then and there. It wasn't guilt or embarrassment anymore, it was annoyance, as if what Sam was saying was as plain as the nose on his face and trying to explain it to Dean was just to frustrating to bear. "Then it's not something that you're doing, it's what you are!" _It means you don't think it matters that you're sucking __**demon blood**__ or that you've become Ruby's bitch; it means that you don't give a damn that you ripped an angel's grace out of his body and not just any angel, but __**Cas**__- _"It means that-" He stopped, hot tears starting to spring to his eyes because of who he was staring at right now, at what his pain in the ass little brother had become.

"What?" Sam snapped, his eyes glistening suspiciously. _You wouldn't._ "No." But the remorseful look on Dean's face, as if the elder Winchester was apologizing for something, was too much. His nostrils flared as he inhaled deeply; the fingers of both his hands were curling in toward his palm. "_Say it_." It was a hiss of a challenge, dangerous bait. A dare.

"It means you're a monster."

Sam's head snapped to the side with the words and he stared hard at the ground. A moment passed and vaguely the thought crossed Dean's mind that maybe, just _maybe_ he had gotten through to his brother-

The hard cross caught him directly across the jaw and he stumbled from the force, running into the corner of the bed before crashing to the floor. Stars flashed across his vision for a moment and Dean could hear his brother breathing hard. "I'm a monster because I killed Castiel, is that what you think?" Sam spat as the elder Winchester slowly put an arm out to brace himself as he got to his feet. "Well damn you Dean, goddamnyou and your precious angel because _I'm glad he's gone_."

_Glad he's gone…_The words rung in his ears. Dean steadied himself, faced the other wordlessly, and let his fist fly into the face of the monster standing before him.

* * *

"Good evening, brother."

Gabriel was an archangel. He did not startle easily, and there was very little that could shock the Lord's messenger- but standing there, watching Belial climb to his feet and dust himself off with that pompous little smirk of his as none other than Zachariah stood defensively before him after having extracted the demon out of the way of a most certain death… Marie's brown eyes went a bit wide, yes.

"Zachariah," he intoned evenly, facing the somewhat heavyset corporate-looking businessman the other angel was possessing. "What is the meaning of this?"

"Peace, Gabriel," Zachariah began, spreading his hands open in a gesture of benevolence. "An agent was needed to draw the Lord's messenger out of-"

"There has been conferment with the servants of Lucifer?" Gabriel's tone held the sharp click of a key in a lock; his voice though, was soft and with a deadly calm. The archangel took a step forward. For the first time in a long time, his vessel's face was completely blank, emotionless. "Thou hast _gravely_ sinned against the Father."

The other's pleasant features wrinkled at the accusation. "No need to pass judgment. Now, it's simply the way of Heaven." Zachariah chortled as the archangel blinked rapidly, the only indication of his stupefaction. "Yes, things back home are far different from what you remember."

The fragments of the bottle of Domaine de la Romanée-Conti lay among the other shards of broken glass, letting the fine wine seep its way into the carpet; a drop of the fermented grape juice fell from an upright sharp piece of debris, plinking against the polished floor and only slightly louder than Gabriel's astonished whisper of a charge. "You lie."

"No, that's my niche," Belial called out with a suave grin while adjusting his cuff links and straightening his necktie. Being the one who stood at God's left hand usually meant that one was privy to everything that was to be orchestrated, both in Heaven and on Earth. Even at the beginning of time, the Lord's messenger was one of the first to know of the rebellion against God; it was he who blew the trumpet calling the faithful into battle. Naturally then, it was quite amusing to see Gabriel dumbfounded and at a total loss. _And now let's see how he takes it when the truth is revealed. _The demon smirked to himself, leaning back against the wall to enjoy the show. _Quality entertainment, this is._

"It was instrumental to have you out of the way Gabriel, that much was certain from the very beginning." Zachariah spoke smoothly, with a crooked grin that made him seem more like one of those perpetually incorrect weather forecasters than an angel wrapped in human flesh. "Not just because of your unwavering service to God and the actions you would have undoubtedly taken against us, but also because of your extraordinary influence upon all of our kin."

"Us?" Gabriel echoed, still in disbelief. "How many have you led astray, Zachariah?"

"They all look up to you," the other continued as if Gabriel had not spoken. "And here we were wondering just how Castiel learned to be so steadfast of spirit, so strong of will." Zachariah's grin tightened, like someone had screwed it in place and it was now growing stale. "To think that he learned it all from the older brother he so admired. Of course it was imperative that God's messenger was far away from where conversion was taking place, and we arranged for it to be so."

"_It was imperative to ensure…instrumental to have you out of the way…captured Castiel…the matter has already been taken care of, Gabriel…"_ Rage was defined by man as violent, uncontrollable anger, which arose spontaneously in response to a stressful or frustrating situation. The Oxford Dictionary listed anger as being a strong feeling of displeasure, annoyance, or hostility- yet the archangel's reaction upon this new realization was indefinable, an emotion no man could experience or ever want to understand. "You delivered Castiel into the hands of evil for the breaking of the seal."

Zachariah's words resounded within his mind and Marie's hands were suddenly shaking, the fingers bending inward to form fists and any of the wineglasses along the bar that had been spared upon Gabriel's entrance now shattered apart; ceramic plates in the kitchen broke as if colliding with rocks over the edge of a cliff and the sink faucets exploded, water within the pipes hissing out in the form of steam. _You sent my brother down into the Pit, set the demons upon his charge and led Samuel Winchester to break his will for the sake of ensuring my absence from Heaven?!_

"You're wondering, 'why Castiel?'" Zachariah said, clasping his hands in front of his round belly and chuckled, not at all perturbed by the staggering, intense, unnamable emotion the other was exuding. "Simply everyone knew you would react exactly the way you did, Gabriel, leaving your post to descend to Earth all for your little brother. Not to mention that Castiel knew far too much." He shrugged nonchalantly. "It's alright though, now I have personally made sure that Castiel now knows how to obey."

_This is just too comical._ Belial shook in silent laughter at the flurry of emotions flying across the young Latina's woman's face but what really killed him was what he could see the archangel displaying; the struggle through understanding and control, disbelief and rage- but most of all, the demon was nearly in absolute stitches because revenge was indeed a dish best served cold.

"Where is my brother." A demand spoken in a voice that was no longer flat or controlled, but shaking with all the turbulence of the Great Flood that once destroyed the world and of the holy fire that would descend from the very mouth of God at the End of the Ages. Zachariah clicked his tongue.

"Castiel, Castiel, Castiel. Marsha, Marsha, Marsha- you needn't worry about him any longer." He nodded up at the ceiling in a welcoming manner. "Just come back home, Gabriel." There was a pause and there came the swift movements of currents of air as more celestial beings arrived, for it was clear that it would take more than mere words or just one garrison of angels to placate the messenger of God. "Don't make things difficult, brother."

Marie's eyes narrowed as Gabriel tensed within the vessel. "I answer to the Almighty and I follow the orders of none but Him alone."

"Is that so?" Zachariah sneered. "And how long has it been since the Almighty spoke to you, brother?" An eternity passed in the next passing second as the words floated out into the air, as the auditory sensations hit the eardrum and vibrated down through the canal for transduction to the nerves carrying the message up to the brain for comprehension and registration. "That's right, Gabriel. You sent your beloved little brother up for discipline upon _my_ order."

This time, Belial really did throw his head back and howl aloud in laughter, roaring at the dawning horror and brokenness in Gabriel's eyes. The demon hadn't much time to enjoy the moment though because as soon as the first cackle left Robert St. James's mouth, he was reeling back and instinctively moving away from the unveiled glory of one seriously pissed off archangel.

"_**In the name of the Father, I shall deliver your rebellious souls to the realm of the Fallen."**_

The sound of a great multitude of wings beating filled the interior of the restaurant that suddenly seemed too small as more than a thousand angels swarmed in upon the archangel.

* * *

"_You don't know me," Sam snarled, face twisted in a caricature of the brother Dean once knew and he was damn sure Sammy would have never wrapped hands around his throat as this man had just done. "You don't know me. You never did, and you never will."_

_Gulping air back into his lungs, it took nearly all of his remaining strength to gasp out his next words as Sam stepped over his form and toward the door. "You walk out that door… don't you __**ever**__ come back."_

He had no idea how long he lay there, hot tears bursting out past their thresholds and trickling slowly down his face. Presently, there came the sound of feet crunching over broken glass and Dean opened his eyes, hardly daring to hope that Sam had really come back-

The hunter blinked. _No._ He'd finally lost it. After all these years of hunting and facing down the greatest evils mankind could have ever dreamed of, Dean was sure that he'd now gone insane because there was no way, _there was no way_ he was staring at the beige trench coat and dark blue tie; it was just a mental image of the holy tax accountant coming back as a hallucination now that he'd finally cracked- "Cas?"

"Get up, Dean."

_No. Cas is dead._ Everything within him was screaming against believing his eyes but Dean painfully pushed himself into a seated position, eyes fixed on the piercing orbs that seemed… different somehow. "How did- what-"

"The Lord called you back from Hell because of what you could do for Heaven." The angel broke in sharply in a flat tone, and Dean flinched because he'd never heard Castiel speak this way before. "It is your duty to stand up and take on that responsibility. Cease this useless indulgence in your own self-pity and pursue the task set out before you."

Speechless, Dean gaped open-mouthed as Castiel turned and walked to the open door and all he could do was call out in desperation- "Cas, wait!"

The angel halted but did not turn, instead casting a short reply over his shoulder. "I learned my lesson when I was away, Dean." _Lesson? What lesson? And where the hell is 'away'?_ "I serve Heaven, not man." Faded sapphire eyes that held nothing but soldierly resolve glared at him and the hunter stared, not knowing who this stranger wearing this familiar meatsuit was, because it sure as hell wasn't Cas. "And I certainly don't serve _you_."

For the second time that evening the door slammed shut, taking away yet once more piece of Dean Winchester.

_A/N: Surprised by the twist on Zachariah's character? I always knew there was something about him that seemed somewhat off; he was far too… smiley. And what in the world have I done to Castiel?! Hopefully I'll be able to get the next chapter out sooner but until then, please drop a review! _


	3. Declaration

_A/N: You guys just absolutely spoil me to death. Thanks for all the reviews; I love your feedback and I'm glad that all of you approve of how the story is developing. Enjoy the chapter!_

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke_

Being alert and responsive in both body in mind was the state in which man ensured his survival and had some of his most pivotal revelations, his greatest moments of brilliance. However, sometimes, the state of being awake and alert of one's own surroundings wasn't nearly as important as the temporary suspension of consciousness and what happened behind closed eyes. Sometimes, what was revealed in the realm where meaningful awareness, thought, and voluntary movement ceased held more weight than anything that man could chance upon in wakefulness.

Sleep has fascinated men of science, scholars, and the common man for thousands upon thousands of years, standing as one of nature's most mysterious phenomena. While some schools of thought focused on the evolutionary and adaptive properties of sleep or the theory that the process was essential for the restoration of physiological and mental functions, all anyone ever wanted to know was why the brain strung together seemingly random images, thoughts, and emotions.

_It was a strange feeling, being disconnected from reality and everything that was happening around her physical form. She could still feel the cool breeze on her face and smell the coppery stench of blood but she did not control her moving mouth and vocal chords, could not hear what was being said and only snagged ephemeral auditory and visual snatches of her surroundings. Now there was the babble of many voices and the sound of wheels attached to a metal frame- a gurney, and a body bathed in red was being rushed in through the automatic sliding doors. A trickle of moisture slipped down her cheek but she knew not why she was crying. _

Freud wrote that dreams were the disguised representations of unconscious and repressed desires, but others refused to accept such an outdated conjecture and instead pointed to the circuits of the limbic system's activation during REM sleep that prompted the brain to interpret such internal activity as dreams. The most eclectic explanation of these suggested that dreaming was man's most creative, and yet most chaotic state of being, in which bits of cognitive information produced pure genius, memories long forgotten became as real as the day they were made, and that which remained buried in the darkest back alleyways of the mind resurfaced.

_The remorse hanging over her mind and tearing at her soul was strong, so strong; it ran deeper than anything she'd ever felt before and it hurt so much that all she wanted to do was fall to her knees and weep. She couldn't though because her body was her own no longer and it took her a moment to realize that the unbearable reproach and self-condemnation she felt wasn't hers either. Confusion arose as she caught a brief glimpse of a badly beaten man lying in a hospital bed; her hand was stretching outwards and then there was the low whine of a heart monitor going flat-_

Most vividly recalled dreams occurred during rapid eye movement sleep, known to the general consensus as REM sleep. As opposed to the four other stages of sleep, the neurons of the brain registered quite similar to their activity during waking hours; heart rate and breathing were seen to be irregular, although the motor neurons remained inactive. This was perhaps what brought on the terrible feeling in dreams of having one's feet rooted to the floor right when the monster was about to pounce…

_She'd never before seen a sight so magnificent, so elegant and yet so horrifying at the same time as the struggle playing out right before her. When the Lord's messenger had left her, it took a moment to get used to being in control of her own limbs again. Being able to blink and trying move on her own was strange as she tried to will her muscles out of atrophy, like her entire body felt too much like a suit of bones and muscles connected together by all too fragile sinews and blood vessels although her nursing background clearly reminded her that the human body was one of the most intricate and miraculous wonders of science._

_It was easy to differentiate between the archangel and all the rest because Gabriel's visage shone brighter, his wings beat more impressively and he fought more fiercely than the others, despite standing alone against so many- and his face, which held such amazing beauty also bore incredible purpose; he knew exactly why he was fighting and was willing to soldier on, even unto death. _

"_Well, hello there my dear."_

_Steely fingers encircled her wrist and Marie turned, twisting around and shying away with a shriek of terror when confronted with the grinning face of the man who held her; blood and milky white fluid dribbled down cheeks from empty eye sockets but behind the destroyed features she could see the demon's rotted flesh and decaying soul. The smell of sulfur filled her nostrils and the nurse screamed, trying to wrench out of the vise-like grip._

_Belial leered maliciously at the young woman, paying no attention to the chairs and tables as they were flung out of the way by the battling celestial forces, as the restaurant rocked upon its foundations and angels were repelled this way and that by their higher-ranked brother. "I don't believe we've been introduced." He dragged his wildly struggling prey closer with a low chuckle of amusement at her vain efforts toward escape. The demon had long been wanting to get his hands on Gabriel's vessel, just to see what was so special about her; he wanted to see what made this meat puppet tick- plus there would be the fun of being able to rip open another warm body. Vaguely, Belial wondered if the nurse would scream like Castiel had but quickly banished the thought from his mind because no one screamed like __**his**__ angel…_

"_**Thou wilt not touch the daughter of Eve!"**_

_Marie fell ungracefully, cutting her palms to ribbons from putting her hands to break her fall and something between a gasp and a scream flew past her lips as the skin of the demon-possessed man's face began peeling away from the muscle and the bone; the blood vessels popped and sent their crimson contents spewing forth, the cartilage of the nose melted and sunk inwards, his teeth fell to the floor like a string of broken pearls rattling around on the marble floor. An inhuman roar issued from his mouth and Belial reached out for her again though an invisible force was drawing his Robert St. James's body backward, his footing slipped and gravity was defied as he flew across the room-_

_Suddenly Gabriel was before her, lifting an arm and thrusting a palm outward in one swift motion and she was flying backwards uncontrollably through time and space. The breath was whooshing out of her lungs but Marie's eyes were wide open upon the sight of the glorious archangel more or less getting tackled and taken down in his moment of distraction in aiding her escape-_

"Marie!"

Hands were grabbing at her again and she lashed out blindly, blinking rapidly to clear her foggy vision because damn it, she wasn't going to go down without a fight! Her fist caught someone's eye and he cursed, loosening his grip only slightly before readjusting the hold on both her wrists. _No!_ Marie brought both legs up and kicked outward, only to have them restrained as well and her panic doubled; she screamed. "_Dios mió, ayúdame!_"

"Hey, calm down! Um… _calma! Tranquillo_!"

_I know that voice._ Marie stopped struggling and looked up at the owner of the Yankee accent he never managed to shake and who'd just managed to completely butcher her native tongues despite having heard her speak it throughout the six years they'd known each other. Colors and shapes had begun to regain their constancy now and the cleft chin that extended upwards into the strong, square jaw swam into view, as did the kind green eyes that were now full of concern. "Marie? You okay?"

"Tommy?"

"Yeah, it's me." Thomas Hartley cautiously released the other's slender wrists and gave the woman a strange askew glance. "Jesus, Marie- how the hell did you get all the way out here?" The ER doctor waved a hand at the dirty environment of the backstreet. "We've been looking for you for you all-oof!"

His words were cut of abruptly as Marie launched herself at him, burying her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of his Irish soap forcefully like a cracked out addict. She wrapped her arms around his torso and squeezed for all she was worth because she was terrified of all that she'd heard and seen, of having to experience all the pain and uncertainty that being archangel's vessel entailed. But most of all she held on tight because now that Gabriel was gone, it meant that there was no one else to hold on to.

* * *

The first whiff of the blend of cigarettes, mold, and stale coffee instantly made his nose wrinkle and Dean coughed, prying his gummy eyelids apart and sitting up to stare about himself in wonderment and confusion. _What the hell?_

It wasn't that what he saw was bizarre or unfamiliar, for all motel rooms he'd ever had the luxury to stay at were the same- cheap and dirty. After one spent enough time in the same surroundings, they all started to feel the same, no matter how many different room numbers or keys. Peeling wallpaper that was probably hiding bacterial undergrowth, check. Bed with a lumpy mattress and funky-smelling sheets, check. Discolored carpet that served as a breeding ground for God knows how many parasites, check.

No, what was making him gape like a deer in the headlights was the fact that Dean quite specifically remembered lying on the ground with broken glass and wooden framework digging into his back the last time he closed his eyes after watching the familiar beige trench coat disappearing out the door-

"_And I certainly don't serve __**you**__." _

_And so he sat there, propped up painfully on one arm, staring open-mouthed at the angel's departing back, noting the soldierly demeanor and the purposeful steps, the steps that purposefully took Castiel away from the elder Winchester. The stabbing sensation in his chest now wasn't from being tossed around the hotel room or smashed into mirrors; no, the sharp pang was far closer to his heart than he would have ever admitted aloud and indeed nothing escaped his mouth save for a groan of pain. _

_Trying to breathe around the ache in his chest, and the other soreness there that must've been at least two or three cracked ribs, Dean attempted to get to his feet because maybe it was just his subconscious conjuring up a hallucination of the other- but Cas would've never spoken to him like that. Never. Even when he'd gotten reamed out for showing the Lord's servant disrespect, the angel's words had indeed been a threat, but the look in his eyes was of frustration and even hope that the reluctant hunter would understand. The sapphire eyes he'd just seen were full of nothing but an eerie and defensive blankness, akin to what he'd once witnessed in Gabriel's countenance. _

_Exhausted and confused, hurting inside and out because Sam had one hell of a left cross, Dean let himself fall limply back into the glass onto the floor, hot moisture pricking at his eyes as he listened to the other brother he'd thought he'd lost walk away. He couldn't hear Castiel's footfalls anymore and the dazed jumble of his thoughts swelled into an overwhelming loneliness as the world began to grow fuzzy at the edges and his vision started to darken. "Cas," Dean croaked out, because no one else cared, and the word was a broken plea because he wasn't even sure of the angel did anymore either._

_Before he heard no more, Dean could've sworn there was the whisper of beating wings and a soft sigh before he felt the press of two fingers against his forehead-_

He probed gently at his torso, examining his ribs for any bruising or any indication that he'd been knocked around like a rag doll by his _own brother_, no less, who was the size of Bigfoot and could be likened to a Neanderthal at times. Dean frowned, feeling somewhat ridiculous for standing there and poking himself repeatedly in the side and so he turned his hands over to examine his knuckles. The skin was intact; there was no splitting or bleeding and in amazement, he lightly put weight on his left foot to test the ankle he'd twisted when he lost his footing in trying to dodge one of Sam's wild swings…

Nothing. At all. There was no pain radiating upwards, not even the slightest twinge of discomfort. Upon sudden impulse, Dean shrugged off his jacket and yanked up his left shirtsleeve to reveal the handprint because he thought he felt something, but had to check just to make sure- it was _tingling_.

_It was real._ The hunter sat down on the edge of the bed and continued to stare at the burn that now even seemed to stand out more than ever before and Dean slowly let the sleeve fall back into the place. _Cas is alive._ He didn't know what to feel: relief, that the angel had somehow miraculously survived having his grace ripped out, irritation that Gabriel hadn't appeared to let him know this piece of information or that Castiel himself hadn't shown up before now, confusion at the angel's strange behavior or hurt at the standoffish attitude and blunt words.

All of this still begged the question, though- where in the world had he been? If Castiel was perfectly fine, then what had Gabriel meant when he spoke of 'doing what had to be done'? _And what the hell did Cas mean when he said he had 'learned his lesson'?_

_Click_. "-thank you, Danny. And now onto our ongoing story about the investigation-"

Dean's head jerked up, staring at the television that had suddenly decided to turn itself on, hands raised to cover his ears already, half-expecting to have his eardrums busted with white noise and static. No such crackling or hissing sounded out though; however, the voice of the blonde haired, mascara clumped, wide-eyed news anchor was just as bad.

"High waters and heavy rains that hampered the search earlier this week have gone done, and now authorities in Wheaton are stepping up the search for a woman from North Dakota who has been missing since last Monday." The hunter's eyebrow quirked upwards as the face of a young woman that he'd first seen staring sternly down at him as his nurse flashed on the screen in grainy resolution; the dark brown eyes were merry and her smile was carefree, so different from the blank-faced stoic nature of the archangel who'd taken her to be his vessel. _That son of a bitch didn't care that there were people who would actually miss her before possessing her?_

"The general consensus is that 27-year old Marie Elena Cortez was taken from her home in Grand Forks and transported across state lines; police in Illinois were alerted when Miss Cortez was thought to have been spotted first in Chicago, and then the Wheaten area-"

With no warning, the ancient air conditioner unit rumbled to life, sending downwards a gusty breeze of stale, chilly air. _Shit!_ Dean jumped once again despite himself, ready for a random individual popping up out of thin air and declaring him or herself to be an angel of the Lord. _Although I really wouldn't mind a certain holy tax accountant showing his face and explaining what the hell happened back there in North Dakota, and why you dumped me here._

The gust of air funneled directly toward an almanac lying on the bedside table that certainly wasn't his, somehow managing to sweep the heavy volume right off the surface and tumbling to the floor; the pages fluttered open to the city of Naperville: as one of the largest municipalities in the state if Illinois, it was first settled in 1831 by Joseph Naper and his brother John, it was encompassed by several major highways including Interstates I-88, I-55, Illinois State Highways 53 and 59… Dean stared uncertainly, not knowing if this was some creepy flinging trick of a demon or angel or merely some other fabrication of his mind. _I must've hit my head harder than I thought…_

"Ow! The hell?!" Apparently, his keys had decided to make a rather annoying target of his head and with a jangle, the elder Winchester snatched them up from where they'd fallen to the bedspread and reached out to swiftly grab the almanac, scooting off the edge of the bed. Getting to his feet, Dean made a break for the door, slipping out of the room before more inanimate objects made up their minds to start levitating and flying around the room like a scene from Harry Potter.

The beautiful 1967 Chevy Impala awoke with a roar, the engine revving as the disgruntled hunter backed out, grumbling under his breath about needing someone to replenish the brain cells he'd been robbed of. In the newly abandoned hotel room, the air conditioner unit stuttered to a stop. The overhead lights flickered unsteadily and from out of the dancing shadows, and a hand slowly reached out toward the dial on the television set, turning off the screen that now displayed nothing but snow and static without physically having to touch it. Discount Motel Six was always reported as having the worst signal reception for channels in the city of Wheaton; it was a _miracle_ if the boxes in their rooms ever worked, much less transmitted both sound and image.

A beige trench coat rustled as its wearer moved to the window, sapphire eyes peering out into the night and following the departing car as it streaked out into the moonless night, the orbs reflecting a deep-rooted weariness and ambivalence. Overhead, a tendril of lightning raced across the dark sky and Castiel lifted his head, face haggard with uneasiness and remorse.

* * *

Thousands of miles away, the same streak of lighting lit up the dark with its brilliance, throwing a split second of spotlight upon the ruins of the local millionaire's famed restaurant,_ Pantheon,_ known for its magnificent blend of fine Italian wine and upscale Grecian cuisine. When the owner selected a title for his magnum opus, there was no way he could've known of the irony of the name. Robert St. James's looked like Oedipus himself, twisted and deformed body lying among the wreckage with nothing but bloody sockets where his eyes should have been.

Local authorities wouldn't happen upon the gruesome and tragic scene until the next morning. The freak storm rolling out overhead hadn't shown any signs of letting up and having to deal with the justifiably shaken populace was a job enough in and of itself to worry about the reports of strange activity happening over at Mr. St. James's eatery. After all, the entire night had been rife with strange activity, starting with the huge patches of ice that were once fountains and pools that _still_ hadn't shown any signs of melting and the sudden evaporation of half the water supply in fire hydrants all over the city.

_There had not been a wrestle this great since the Son of Perdition himself had been cast, kicking and cursing wildly, out of the hallowed halls of the Father. Although the one straining against the hands of his kin was in fact being dragged back __**up**__ to Heaven and could not boast of harboring greater might than Lucifer himself once had- no angel could- the struggle was colossal. _

"_Brothers and sisters, behold- a traitor in our midst!" A great clamor arose in response to the bold charge but the accused did not speak out in his own defense, merely faced down the host of rebellious beings with a blank-faced that belied his holy righteousness and wrath. "Swear your allegiance," the voice insisted and a great hush fell in anticipation of the other's reply. _

Suddenly, the whirlwind of condensation that had been swirling above the earth for the past hour or so vanished without the barest hint of being there. Trucks that had been sent out to salt the highways for fear of snow buildup- in the month of May!- were faced with completely dry roads; some cautiously crept out of their basements and makeshift bomb shelters, wondering just what in the world was causing the weather to act as fickle as a teenage girl's heart.

_Silence reigned in the fields of the Lord as all waited with baited breath for the captured archangel's answer. Gabriel lifted his head and delivered his message of undying loyalty in the magnificent voice that rung out in the far corners of Heaven, Earth, and even down into the realm of the wicked: _

"_**Only to the Almighty and never to thy prideful soul!"**_

The roll of thunder that crashed out in the heavens caused all who lived in the realm below in the skies to clap their hands to their ears and gaze up fearfully at the atmosphere that still looked like the depths of an inkwell, black and unrelenting. Grandmothers hushed the little ones by saying that lightning never struck the same place twice and scientists held to the belief that the flashes of lightening preceded the rumbling noise that marked the expansion of rapidly heating air as typical in all summer squalls- but there was nothing soothing or ordinary about this storm.

Abruptly, the tide changed. Ice fell back into its neutral state in the blink of an eye; torrents of water came gushing back through pipes and into their previously abandoned spaces, and once the droplets slid back into place, all was calm, as noiseless as the grave and stiller than Death itself.

_A/N: This chapter's a bit shorter than what's usually posted and I apologize; there was an incident in home life this past week that doesn't stand as an excuse, but is a reason nonetheless. Hopefully this'll make up for it- a fair number of you have expressed a bit of disappointment in how Ruby went out in the 'Lucifer Rising', so I'd be open to any ideas as to how you would like to bid her farewell in this story. Please drop a review and send me your ideas and feedback! _


	4. Sixtyfive

_A/N: Thank you for all the wonderful reviews, they were the best graduation presents I got this past week. Now all of you have me considering skipping undergrad to become a freelance writer. Enjoy the chapter!_

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke._

All too often, man feared losing his material possessions to a natural disaster, wealth due to the failing economy or control over the physical functions of his own body. Out of the five senses, that which most of the general population valued most was that of sight, the power to perceive with the eyes and to discern visually. What everyone failed to take into consideration was that without successful transduction of visual sensation through the optical nerve into the occipital lobe of the brain, or any other sensation in fact, it wouldn't matter if one had perfect vision or no sight at all; without the mind, the abilities of the senses would mean nothing.

What then of those who had no control over their own minds, those whose occipital or temporal lobes were less than perfect? Such flaws in the mental makeup often in stride with increased activity of the neurotransmitter dopamine in the mesolimbic pathway of the brain resulted in hallucinations, delusions, and social dysfunction- mental fragmentation characterized by the breaks and splits from reality that provided for the etymology of the disease schizophrenia.

The common thought was that those affected with such a disorder were to be labeled as having a couple of screws loose and should be treated with a straightjacket and a nice padded room, compliments of the resident taxpayers' dollars. However, the far-reaching effects of schizophrenia also contributed to chronic problems with behavior and emotion, including major depression and anxiety disorders; increased physical health problems as well as the higher rate of substance abuse both contributed to a lower rate of life expectancy, as did the significantly higher risk of suicide.

Marie had long ago promised to herself that she would not be another statistic or lumped together with those who foolishly took their own life because of being unable to adjust to the world whose societies sought perfection, both mental and physical, more than anything else. Having been born into a family rife with a history of schizophrenia, she'd chosen to attend nursing school when her older brothers succumbed to depression, confusion, and gang life; she'd chosen to monitor every single thought of her daily life with the utmost care, knowing that already working in a hospital would make the transition into the psychiatric ward slightly easier when her senses would inevitably one day betray her with imaginary stimuli nonexistent to anyone besides her own deteriorating mind.

For most of her life Marie Elena Cortez had tried to be normal, because perhaps ignoring the beautiful voices that whispered their secrets into her ears since childhood would make them go away, or brushing off what she sometimes saw as mere shadows or light would be just as if she hadn't seen anything at all. If she never told anyone about her strange attentiveness to each individual raindrop that fell from the sky, or about how thunderstorms seemed to fuel a sense of righteous anger rooted deep within her chest, nobody would have a reason to think of her as crazy.

Maybe if she prayed fervently and faithfully everyday, petitioning that He use her for His will and service, God Almighty would somehow cure her- because what better service could she provide than helping others as a physical aide?

_Qué __irónico._ Marie tucked her fist under her chin and stared out the window, looking out at the gradually receding darkness of night as it gave way to the wee hours of the morning, tapping herfoot against the floor. _No one can say that God doesn't have an odd sense of humor._ In just the past two weeks, she'd seen and experienced more than she ever thought was possible, testing every imaginable physical, mental, and spiritual limit she bore. After it all, she'd found herself standing on a pier on the Chicago shoreline of Lake Michigan, not knowing how or what to do now that it was all over.

Being in control of her motor functions once again and having the ability to take in and make sense of all that was happening around her felt… well, strange. Not that being inhabited by an archangel of the Lord _wasn't_, and in fact the latter option hurt a hell of a lot more than just simply trying to readjust after a quite literal out of body experience. _Actually I wasn't out of my own body… it was more like I was shut inside and had my consciousness pushed to the backseat while another took over. _Facing down demons and witnessing an epic angel battle royale that certainly seemed out of place from what she'd read of the Bible was far from what she had in mind when she agreed to Gabriel-

"And, here you go." Marie jumped slightly when a hand set the paper cup down on the table in front of her and she glanced up at Thomas, who was grinning playfully down at her. "A quad split shot grande in a venti cup with one pump mocha, one pump non-fat cinnamon dolce, no whip, topped with mocha drizzle and finished off with Americano misto." The young man sat down in the seat opposite hers, looking rather pleased with himself. "Your favorite."

She couldn't help it- a smile slowly spread across Marie's face as the stress and fear, all of the uncertainty and pain melted away at the other's satisfied grin because while most men lost their attractiveness when they turned into smug bastards, Thomas was the type that had the ability to appear charming even when acting a bit arrogant. Sitting here in the cozy atmosphere of the coffeehouse, listening to the dripping of brewed coffee and curling her fingers around a warm cup of liquid Heaven with her longtime friend- what could be better? The nurse popped the lid off of the cup and leaned forward across the table with a teasing sparkle in her eye. "Well, not exactly-"

"I know, I know; you don't have any favorites. All you need is a decent cup of normal, brewed coffee that doesn't taste as bitter as the soul of Satan-"

"-and can be sweetened with less than the entire sugar crop of South America," Marie finished, laughing. Blowing gently to knock off the steam, she brought the cup up to her lips and caught Thomas's forest green eyes watching her intently over the rim. "What?" She had a feeling she knew what his next words would be though, even before he said them.

Thomas shifted positions in his chair, the rakish grin now gone as he leaned forward, mouth opening as if to utter something. His jaw worked once, but soundlessly before he seemed to give up and sighed deeply, putting his elbows on the table and resting his chin atop his interlaced fingers, gazing steadily at her. "On the day your suspension ended, I stood outside the ER for an hour, waiting for you so we could make our coffee run together between shifts." The doctor smiled somewhat bitterly and shook his head. "You know something? In the six years since we started working at the same hospital, you've never left me waiting there without telling me you weren't going to show. I went by your place and your neighbors said they hadn't seen of or heard from you in a week."

"Tommy, I-" Marie stared down into the depths of the cup she held, at the brewed beverage that had indeed been ordered and fixed just the way she liked. _What is there to say? A mere 'I'm sorry' sounds pathetic, even in my own head._

Her companion continued to drill her with a look that was stern, but clearly implied that her actions had hurt. "Christ, Marie- I was scared shitless. There's been a lot of weird stuff happening lately, and people have been disappearing for no reason- like that John Doe who was admitted with half his ribs torn out of his back. Suddenly then you decide to up and vanish too?"

_His face was paler than the sheets he lay against or the bandages his body was swathed in; the strip of gauze encasing his head made a tuff of chestnut brown hair fall across his forehead. The bulky oxygen mask covering the lower half of his face fogged up with each hiss of artificial breath and her hand extended outward slowly, fingers dark against the bloodless white of the man's skin as she removed the mask. Lying there so still he looked a broken toy that some nasty little kid had torn apart and then tried putting back together with band-aids. But no, this was the little brother who bore perhaps more love, reverence, and faith for the Father than any of his kin, it was-_

"Castiel," Marie whispered aloud, without knowing that she'd even spoken, and Thomas's look of confusion seemed to imply that she'd sprouted an extra head or something equally odd. "The John Doe… I mean… never mind."

"Marie, what's going on?"

"I…I'm not quite sure." How on earth was she to explain that she'd been possessed by an archangel- and not just any archangel, but _Gabriel_, nonetheless- and was now experiencing flashbacks of what had happened when the Lord's messenger had been using her body as a means of transportation down here among humanity? Marie rubbed her temples, trying to ward off the impending migraine she could feel forming behind her eyes. _If I don't sound crazy by offering such an explanation… then the situation in and of itself is insane. I'd have a hard time getting Father Jacobs to believe this, much less Mr. liberal agnostic Hartley._

"Hey." Fingers snapped in front of her face then and she looked up to see all traces of disappointment and unhappiness gone from Thomas's features, now replaced by a comforting grin. "It's okay, Mimi," The young man said reassuringly. "You can trust me."

_Mimi._ Marie had to smile at the nickname Thomas had adopted for her that was almost as adorable as it was annoying, much like the man himself. The other's handsome Irish features was enough to make any woman with eyes swoon, with the barely noticeable cleft chin, strong jaw and black hair that made his amazingly jade eyes sharper than any green gemstone. She knew that God loved all of his children equally, but at times couldn't help but think that the Creator of all things beautiful favored this doctor just a little bit more to have given him such a face.

She could remember six years ago, when they first met- she was fresh out of nursing school where she'd been at the top of her class, and determined to focus on her career, out of the shadows of the fractured family life back home. By some stroke of dumb luck or by the grace of God, a certain up and rising trauma surgeon had just transferred to the hospital and the two had quite literally run into each other on their first day, a collision which resulted in a promise for the latte that had been spilled and her very first quad split shot grande with all the odds and ends that went into it.

Their relationship over the subsequent years had been rather… interesting, to say the least. First there was Thomas's wife whom simply _had_ to be out of her mind, because Marie honestly had no idea what kind of crazy the woman had to be to take a lover when she already had the kindest man in the world. She had been the one supporting him through throughout the nasty legal battle that followed. He was the first one she phoned in tears when the news of her mother's death came, and he showed up at her apartment door not more than ten minutes later with a shoulder to cry on and a bottle to help drown her sorrows.

"_You can trust me."_

Always the first to volunteer his own time, never harsh or uncouth, and always willing to give more than he received, Thomas Riley Hartley was a man who could help restore anyone's faith in the human race and Marie knew that she would place her trust in him no matter what. He had it ever since he took her heart.

"I know I can."

* * *

The twin headlights of the BMW focused briefly on the man moving along the shoulder of the highway underpass as it drove on down the road, spotlighting the slumped body posture that fitted the beige trench coat and slow, shuffling steps of an individual clearly not in the best of spirits. Had the woman glanced out the window at this mysterious stranger who was out and walking on the freeway, of all places, at this late hour, she would have seen the split-second shadows of large appendages extending from the man's slouched shoulders.

His gaze was fixed morosely upon the ground, his mouth set into a thin line that bespoke his dejection- but it was the shadow _in_ his eyes that revealed something felt far deeper and graver than any words could describe; there was something _missing_. There were dark bags under blue orbs that once held a captivating sapphire light and had the ability to silence even the most defiant hunter with a single piercing glare. Now as faded as the hues of the graffiti decorating the concrete of the underpass, one could have never guessed that their owner was an angel of the Lord.

"Good evening, Castiel."

A black oxford halted mid-step, toe still pointing upwards before it was retracted so sharply that any lesser man would have lost his balance in the process of backing away in so swift a manner. This individual was no man though, and it was with an incredible amount of dignity and grace that Castiel refrained from running headlong into the portly man who seemed to have appeared out of thin air and was at the moment standing not more than two feet away from him. "Been busy, have we?" Zachariah asked cordially, beguilingly.

Castiel said nothing, for there was no need to do so. It was clear from the slight mocking undertone evident in his senior's tone that Zachariah already knew the answer to his own question. The other angel chuckled as if the situation was incredibly humorous for some reason, and shook his head in a piteous fashion. "I must say, your tenaciousness is indeed admirable, but your endeavor was poorly executed and is ultimately useless. Did you really think that there was no witness to your noble act of sending Dean Winchester off to save the sixty-fifth seal?"

The accused stood motionless and silent, hands clasped behind his straightened back and with squared shoulders, staring straight ahead with soldierly resolve. He looked for all the world like a man in uniform standing at attention as his sergeant advanced with sinister intent, ready to cut him down without remorse or conscience. Castiel didn't so much as flinch as his superior walked in a slow circle around him, previously friendly countenance now twisted into a scowl.

"What is even more astounding than your action in and of itself is the fact that you have the audacity to continue such insubordination even after chastisement." Zachariah stopped circling and stepped forward threateningly, eyes boring into the side of Castiel's head; his polished, businessman's voice dropped to a lethal octave. "Perhaps you have not yet learned your lesson?"

_-darkness closed around the edges of his vision despite being in a place so bright. Heaven was supposed to constitute righteousness and purity, holiness and all the glory of the Lord; but there was nothing but pain here, pain that exceeded even the lowest level of the Pit because the chains binding him in place were forged of sanctified fire. He hung heavy from his wrists. This could not be the will of God; the ever-loving Father would never allow such torture in his courts… As the blade pierced his soul, the angel's back arched and the chains rattled as he uttered a cry of suffering-_

"_Wilt thou obey?" came the booming demand, and he pulled uselessly against the restraints, twisting this way and that because he_ _would not relent, he __**couldn't**__ give in to such disobedience against the Almighty; but his soul could bear the agony no longer- _

"_Swear your allegiance!"_

His jaw clenched tightly, swallowing the memory and pushing back the residual pain that refused to subside like an omnipresent warning against disobedience. Of course he'd not forgotten the mantra that had been drilled into his mind until he almost believed it: he was a soldier and it was his duty to serve Heaven, not man- and certainly not Dean Winchester. The son of Adam who was responsible for breaking the first seal was to answer to the sons of Fire, not the other way around.

_I humbly petition you to safeguard his soul merciful Lord, for your servant is incapable of protecting him any longer._ Castiel bowed his head and closed his eyes, refusing to give Zachariah the satisfaction of his submission, but it was already visibly obvious that his will was broken. So he prayed for his charge, to whom he owed more than he could repay. _Let him not be led astray by the temptations of the wicked or the deadly snares of the misguided._

Zachariah turned away, staring off at an object in the distance with yet another shake of his head, no doubt both amused and scornful at Castiel's cowed silence and browbeaten demeanor. "So very like your brother. The same staunch determination, abiding loyalty, and discernment." A passing car threw a momentary sliver of light upon the pair, showing each in his respective role: the radio ad salesman and the CEO, the grunt and the senior management, the unwilling marionette and the manipulative puppeteer.

"Even the same doubt and weakness," the angel mused aloud thoughtfully. "You care too much, both of you- you for your charge and Gabriel for his favored little brother."

What the other spoke was the truth, and that was why the words weighed down so heavily upon Castiel's soul. The Lord's messenger was the elder brother, in every aspect of the epithet: noble, highly venerated, and a natural leader. Even when Lucifer held position as highest of all celestial beings, Gabriel had the ability to command authority and admiration simultaneously, in a way that the Son of Perdition never could. However, perhaps the one characteristic that most set the former apart was his protective nature.

Lucifer cared for naught but himself, and what glory and power could be given to his own name. Gabriel's foremost concern was the wellbeing of his kin- after working for the glory and honor of God's name, of course. All of heaven had trembled at his roar of outrage upon the discovery of Belial's less than honorable intentions toward a certain younger brother, he of the purest soul and the utmost earnest to serve the Father, but with the naivety of a child.

"_**Thou shalt not lay a hand upon my brother!"**_

The feeling consuming him now came as a result of having failed in an obligation and it overwhelmed him like never before. Face haggard with exhaustion and shame, the youthful mien of the man he was possessing seemed to have aged ten years in the past few months alone. _You have endured countless trials and hardships for my sake, brother. What have I to offer in return for such rapport?_ The words were an unspoken inquiry to not only his heavenly brother, but also aimed toward a hardheaded man with a quick wit and even quicker trigger finger but ultimately a good heart.

"It seems like the only difference will be how much it takes to break the will of the Lord's messenger."

Castiel's eyes snapped open at Zachariah's simple, nonchalant statement and all weariness fled from his face, replaced by a horrified expression. _He lies._ But the instant denial was illogical and irrelevant, for what would the other gain by this falsification?

Zachariah chortled for he could read tension in the sudden stiffening of Castiel's shoulders, and uncertain fear in the tightening cords in the neck. It was a short-lived moment of comedy for the superior angel and then he was serious, on the verge of menacing. "And should you consider defying orders again, you shall be joining him."

There was no response, and friendly features turned ugly with startling speed. "Castiel!" The harsh bark was rewarded with a slow raising of molten silver blue orbs filled with undisguised anger. Zachariah merely smiled, once more all courtesy and charm that somehow heightened the threat of the soft-spoken words that followed. "Or perhaps you would fancy a visit to our mutual fallen friend? I'm told that he misses his _Cas_ a great deal."

"_Has anyone ever told you, Cas, how utterly exquisite you are?" Fingers laced with invisible venom came to rest against the side of his face, cold and filled with depravity only a servant of the Pit could produce. All of the previous torture had garnered streams of blood flowing from gaping wounds- but this, this filthy caress, the tongue against his thrumming pulse and whispers of lusty suggestion were far worse… "Believe me, I will make certain that you remember what __**I**__ do to you." _

It was almost like a voluntary response, a reflex that he could not control- Castiel flinched, shaken to the very core and looked away, no longer strong in righteous anger. Zachariah shrugged, unconcerned. "At the moment he is occupied in dealing with the sixty-fifth seal, which will be broken, I assure you. The blood of the archangel's vessel shall be spilt upon the turning of the hour and Lucifer _will_ rise."

* * *

"I think I may have gotten myself into some sort of trouble." Marie hesitated, unsure of how to continue._ Qué puedo decir__?_

The doctor raised an eyebrow, prompting her to speak more. "Is it… gang related stuff again?"

"What? No." _What wouldn't I give to have the situation be as simple as something like that?_ Flustered, Marie heaved a sigh, absent-mindedly tracing the spiraling pattern of leaves carved into the wooden surface of the table. "It's much worse."

"Mimi," Her friend started gently, taking her slim hand in his larger one. "I want to help you my dear, I really do; but you have to be much more specific than that. I can't help fix it if I don't know what the problem is in the first place."

"I know that you want to help; it's just-" Marie stopped in the middle of the sentence, mouth still pursued in the act of forming the next syllable and she blinked once, processing what she'd just heard, hardly able to believe her ears.

_My dear._ Thomas had never called her that before. In fact, the only individual who'd ever addressed her in such a manner was-

She instinctively tried jerking her hand out of the other's suddenly all-too-firm grasp as if scalded with boiling water, slowly raising her gaze from the tabletop to fix in horrified disbelief on Thomas's face. _Dios mío, por favor, no, no Tommy también… _

Thomas Hartley had an absolutely stunning smile; slow and genuine that showed mainly a row of straight, white bottom teeth punctuated with deep dimples. It was the type of smile that one hoped to see at least once in a lifetime, the type that could have made a dying man believe that all was right in the world- and it was nothing like the contemptuous sneer distorting his features now.

"Just what, my dear?" Belial drawled, eyes rolling back to expose white and tightening his fingers around the woman's wrist. "You know, the last few encounters I've had with the prick who chose you actually knocked me about quite a bit. I've come to repay the favor…" he smirked. "But since the old sport isn't here, I suppose I'll have to settle for his _packaging_, instead."

With a wild swipe of her hand, Marie sent the contents of the halfway filled coffee cup into the demon's face, twisting her wrist free of the steely fingers. Grasping the edge of the table as she flew to her feet, the Latina woman overturned it with ease and grabbed the canister of salt, wrenching off the top and letting the granules sift through her shaking fingers.

He was laughing as he stood, a deep throaty chuckle that was Thomas's voice, but not it at all. "Oh, she wants to play. Careful though sweet, you wouldn't want to harm Tommy now, you would you?" Belial casually wiped his face clean on his sleeve. "Because _something_ tells me you'd be terribly upset if anything happened to this handsome face."

"Hijo de puta," Marie hissed out from in between gritted teeth, tears springing to her eyes. She slowly backed away from the demon wearing her friend's body, eyes darting toward the coffeeshop's exits. "El arcángel no está aqui, que quieres conmigo?!"

"Do you know what an angel's grace is?" Belial asked randomly and with an air of congeniality, walking forward. "It's simply the physical manifestation of what makes up a celestial being. I used to have one, but its absence isn't what makes me what I am today." The demon clicked his tongue at the obvious confusion on Marie's face. "The sons of fire operate on and survive solely due to _faith_. Following me? No?" He sighed. "Pity. And the good doctor Hartley holds you in such high esteem darling; this is a mite disappointing."

"Estoy yendo matarte," came the furious reply and Belial chuckled good-naturedly. Lifting a finger, he effortlessly drove the petite form across the room and pinned the nurse against the wall.

"Let me put it this way. An angel without his grace is still a servant of the Most High if he retains his faith in all that is pure and holy; it's not a condemnation to fall or perish if one's essence is lost, it's a choice." The demon leaned against the opposite wall, crossing his arms over his chest, ignoring Marie's struggles to break free. "They say that angels were created to carry out the will from above, but allow me to divulge a secret- these celestial beings are not composed of the wrath of Heaven alone or confined to follow orders blindly; no. God didn't make the sons of fire that way and even less so the favored creation, man."

Stepping forward over spilled coffee and around the upturned furniture, Belial moved toward his captive with a curious little half-smile. "Man isn't made up of flesh and blood; he's not connected by sinews and tendons. Oh, I know that your medical background taught you differently, but hear me out." From a pocket he withdrew a number ten scalpel, flipping the instrument playfully over his fingers. "Man is rather made in the image of the Almighty for he has a soul and a will; he has the _choice_ between righteousness and sin, belief and disbelief."

Silence filled the interior of the coffeeshop for a moment; Marie seemed to have been telepathically gagged as well as bound against her will and Belial was gazing off thoughtfully into thin air, contemplating the words he'd just uttered. Abruptly, the demon shrugged. "They call it the inspired Word of God, I call it nonsensical bullshit. If I rip a man's heart out of his chest, he's not going to choose whether or not he'll live or die." Turning on the helpless woman, a maniacal grin stretched Thomas's features. "And neither will you, my dear."

_A/N: Well, there's my cringeworthy attempt at writing romance. I've been updating weekly but next week I'm not sure if I'll have access to the Internet so until then, please review! _


	5. Skirmish

_A/N: So, I'm back from a week at the beach (and a week without the Internet!) with more mosquito bites than I can count, strange tan lines, and a new chapter. Sorry for the late update, but enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke _

Theological scholars often disagreed on many a specific verse in God's holy and inspired Word, and even more so when attempting to discuss their meanings. So many translations had been printed and now sitting in the bedside dresser drawer of every Motel 6 and Hilton or lining the pews of every chapel, no wonder it was somewhat difficult to grasp the true significance of the decrees of the Almighty- the New International Version, the New King James Version, the Message, the English Standard Version- all of them read the same: 'And God said, "Let there be light," and there was light.'

It was obvious to assume that the natural agent that stimulates sight and makes things visible was of great importance- but if the Lord in all his omnipotence could have seen just as well in the dark as with illumination why was the absence of the shadow so pivotal that it warranted creation directly after the heavens and the earth?

Irony presented itself upon the countless cases in which the allure of a pretty face would be described as akin to the features of an angel when in truth, if one so happen to sneak even the smallest glance at the visage of one of the soldiers of the Lord, the last thing he would see before his orbs were reduced to ash within his eye sockets was overwhelming light. Throughout the ages, man had painted glorious portraits of the hallowed halls of Heaven with brushes, notes of song, and words; all celebrating the magnificent radiance of Paradise where endless joy would abound in the wonderful light of God Himself and the splendor of all the Heavenly host.

_The luminous surroundings assailed his corneas, reducing his pupils to pinpricks and heating the blood vessels within his retinas; his eyes flamed, burning hot against the back of their lids when he tried to close them. Surrendering to the somewhat more tolerable option of the two, he blinked rapidly and tried to focus on the road ahead of him only to find he was no longer on any road and instead of pressing the accelerator to the floor of the Impala, his feet were resting atop a substance that was solid, liquid and gaseous all at the same time and equally so. _

_An exclamation of confusion mingled in with an expletive customary of the hunter would have slipped out past his lips had it not been for the stifling silence that closed in upon him, seeming to forbid speech and prohibit noise of any kind. Sparing a quick glance around his person, Dean discovered himself to be surrounded by creatures outlined, composed of, and defined by the very light that shone through everywhere. They stood still, colorless eyes blazing white and each as terrifyingly stoic as the next, a gigantic pair of something lying flat against their backs-_

"_Shit."_

_His vocal cords vibrated but the word was inaudible and he wasn't even sure if it had registered as anything in this place. It couldn't be helped though because this clearly had to be another one of the angels' twisted mind games or something; there was no way in __**hell**__ that he was in Heaven, standing here among the warriors of God themselves. He was pretty sure that he'd been driving along the interstate not a moment before this, not standing here in what appeared to be a makeshift amphitheatre, surrounded by silent celestial beings that radiated holy fire and the righteous wrath of the Almighty. Unsure of what to do and scared shitless that one wrong move would result in a one way trip back to the other realm so frequented by those after their clock stopped ticking, he looked where everyone else was staring- and nearly choked on his own breath. _

_Dean Winchester had never been a fan of satire or paradoxical situations, even though he spoke sarcasm with incredible eloquence, because irony really was a bitch. There was nothing wonderful or lovely about the sight his eyes beheld now, no miracle in the light of Heaven, no beauty in the stark ugliness at which he was staring._

_He knew this scene; he'd seen it a hundred times before, both in his dreams and in reality- Alastair's hand tearing through already shredded skin, muscle and flesh, splintering bone and sending gouts of blood spurting forth; Sam sticking his arm in up to the elbow and then came the spasm of shock, the tears from destroyed sapphire eyes and the piercing cry of suffering-_

"_Swear thy allegiance!" _

_Now the mantra came from the tormentor, as the victim made not a sound. There was no crimson of blood this time around, only the slumped body held up by manacles and chains forged by the purest metal imaginable as the scourge descended yet again-without sound, flaming sanctified fire and tearing to ribbons not skin or flesh but light and the essence of spirit. A cold feeling swelled in the pit of Dean's stomach and bile rose in the back of his throat because while this was nowhere near as ghastly as some of the other terrible spectacles he'd borne witness to in the Pit, he felt absolutely sick. _

_Where was the pearly gate, the streets inlaid with gold and the twenty-four elders who cast down their crowns around the glassy sea? This was Heaven? This, the Elysium that everyone to enter into one day by the grace of God? This wasn't what he expected; despite all his sneering at safe haven of supposedly overflowing happiness and tranquility, never had Dean thought that he would be standing here, gazing down upon such barbarism and savagery like a spectator at some Roman gladiatorial game. Where was the love, the grace, and the peace?_

_Where was the __**mercy**__? _

"_How now, brother?" The voice was smooth, like that of a seasoned orator's and rung out with the same quality as a politician's: Cicero speaking out against Marc Antony, filled with all the niceties in the world while the oil-slick poison lay beneath, unnoticed until the hour struck too late. It did not blast the hunter's eardrums to bits though, rather sounding out within his mind; he could feel the powerful voice rattling against the sides of his skull, words echoing ominously. The scourge was laid aside and a hand was raised, creating an invisible force that jerked the bound prisoner's body upwards, arms and legs dangling boneless, wings lying limp and useless. By a power unseen the heavy head was lifted from where it lolled down against the barely moving chest. "Wilt thou obey, Castiel?" _

_As the last syllable of the name that by now had become as familiar as breath resounded in Dean's consciousness, fire exploded in his left arm; a choked gasp was torn from his throat and he pitched forward, not caring what sort of unspoken protocol he might have been breaking or whatever distorted exhibition this was. Landing solidly on his knees, he hardly noticed the twinges of pain radiating up as a result of the blunt impact, too occupied with the feeling of having his soul torn away from its temporary suit of flesh and bone but this time it was worse than getting mangled by hellhounds, it was worse than dying…it was worse than Hell itself. _

"_Cas!" He rasped, fighting to get to his feet, struggling to push through the horde of celestial bodies barring his path and separating him from the tortured angel. Invisible daggers stabbed at him, dragging him down as the epicenter of attack, the primary target being the scorching mark seared into his flesh that felt like bubbling, molten wax. The suspended angel in his line of vision dipped and then disappeared as Dean fell headlong, twitching like one consumed with a roaring fever. "__**Cas!!**__"_

_Half-lidded sapphire eyes no longer shone with driving force or with steadfast determination; they were drained of resilience and registered only weariness as they were bared for a brief instant before closing again, having shown no indication of hearing the elder Winchester's wild, urgent shout of desperation. Curiously enough, although everything about his posture and condition suggested defeat, the angel remained completely unresponsive to the demand for submission- whether out of a will that somehow still endured or an inability to find the strength to respond, it was difficult to tell. _

_Struggling against every instinct that told him to lay and curl into a fetal position, Dean pushed himself up onto elbows and knees. He could see one primary celestial creature being the source of all the affliction while all the others simply watched- not with malicious intent or sympathy, or even interest- with the utmost attention, they just observed without question, comment, or concern of the torture of one of their kin. The businessman-like voice spoke again, apparently without pity and in a no-nonsense manner; but Dean could've sworn he heard something like authoritarian satisfaction in the cold statement. _

"_You force my hand, Castiel." _

_Almost on cue or by command, the bound prisoner immediately convulsed terribly, muscles contorting and limbs jerking spastically this way and that, making the chains rattle- the only sound in the otherwise silent realm. His back arched as if someone had thrust a knife in and up between the shoulder blades, opening up the chest; his shoulders were thrown back and arms flung outwards, pulling away from each other in a scene reminiscent of those sentenced to death by means of being drawn and quartered and both wings extended to their full span, seeming to strain against another unseeable force more powerful than his valiant attempts at resistance._

_Head thrown back, the angel's mouth opened and from his throat came a prolonged, primitive howl of not emotion but crude agony, pain to its rawest core. Here now, here were the frighteningly beautiful voices of the choir harmonizing over the swelling orchestration of the victim's cry but Dean could do nothing but watch in horror as flashes of blinding light began to consume the two glorious appendages that in reality, folklore, and dream separated the sons of fire from the sons of clay, leaving the edges of the wings ragged and uneven._

"_**What they did to my brother in Hell is unspeakable. Alastair made him suffer in ways beyond human capacity for understanding or imagination.**__"_

_Gabriel's voice, from faraway and what seemed to be eons ago rang out in his mind, throbbing relentlessly. Dean gaped wordlessly as the chains went slack, as the tortured angel fell heavily to hands and knees, shaking controllably because of a pain no moral could ever grasp or experience, a sensation the hunter would never know of- for if demons were capable of causing agony so excruciating and unendurable with all their blood-splattered toys and vile methods down in the pit, what more were their holy counterparts capable of? _

"_Wilt thou obey? Give thyself wholly over to Heaven and swear thy allegiance- now."_

_He was collapsed in a heap, head bowed so low that his forehead touched the ground, the highest area of the once-glorious being now cast down to the lowest position. Tattered wings drooped downwards in a vain attempt to shield the crumpled form from the eyes of those all around, like a child after a severe beating disguised as being 'taught a lesson'- _

"_**I learned my lesson when I was away, Dean.**__"_

_Dean's eyes widened because only now did he comprehend Castiel's cryptic assertion and something tightened within his chest. A heaviness settled down upon his spirit and an emotion so deeply felt swelled up; it was worse than any physical pain he'd ever encountered before because at seeing the angel kneeling there before his tormentor and in the presence of all- shamed, disgraced, and so utterly __broken__- never having had faith before, only then did the elder Winchester understand what it meant to have it totally destroyed. _

_It was a sight he wished to burn out of his memory yet he could not tear his eyes away and so Dean pressed his palms tightly against his eye sockets, trying to will out of his mind the image that had already been emblazoned onto the back of his eyelids with holy, sanctified fire and would remain there as a haunting reminder even when he no longer had eyes to see-_

Suddenly his vision starred weirdly and he was staring into the light again, except this time there were two of them, circular in shape and breaking through the darkness like twin spotlights; his feet were pressed against the carpeted flooring of the vintage car and the ironic exclamation flew out past his lips- "Oh, Jesus CHRIST!!"

Grabbing hold of the steering wheel, Dean threw his entire shoulder into turning the object, swerving back into his lane just as the semi tractor trailer roared past, honking its horn for extra effect. Breathing hard and with his heart pounding triple time against his ribs, the hunter glanced into the rearview mirror and caught the telltale red and blue strobe lights of the police cruiser an instant before the wails of the siren assaulted his ears.

_You've got to be kidding me.

* * *

_

The room was abuzz with rhythmic noises, with the barely audible wheezing of the mechanical ventilator to the beeping of the cardiac monitors and continuous dripping of the IV- a symphony of sounds manufactured by man to provide and sustain life by artificial means. Through the web of feeding tubes, drains, nasogastric tubes and catheter, it was nearly impossible to catch glimpse of the one to whom all the devices were to keep alive.

And she was alive- barely though, and even the surprisingly harmonious hum of machines could not assuage the fears of the medical staff that worked around the clock. The woman couldn't possibly be alive; she _shouldn't_ even be alive. The human body only had, at most, six liters of blood and the paramedics who arrived first upon the scene described it as a bloodbath comparable to the Civil War's Battle of Antietam- with but only one victim.

Authorities had yet to confirm or even venture guesses as to the woman's identity for whoever took it upon themselves to commit such an atrocity had taken the great care to remove any skin that could have provided fingerprint identification by striping the skin clean off the bone. Jane Doe's face had also been clubbed repeatedly with multiple blunt objects, shattering the mandible, maxilla, and nasal bone… Needless to say, she would probably have to frequent plastic surgeons for the rest of her life- if she ever awoke at all. Even though she'd been placed in the single room with all the ins and outs of an entire ICU, the outlook certainly was not favorable.

A sharp click broke the strains of the room's melody; the doorknob turned a precise ninety degrees to the right without any physical means, for there was nothing touching the handle. The door swung inward silently, opening up enough to allow in a pair of black oxford shoes that moved soundlessly against the shiny linoleum floor; black dress pants made a whisper of movement against the beige of a three quarter length trench coat as their wearer walked slowly to the bedside.

Bloodshot blue eyes outlined by dark circles were contrite as they stared down upon the woman who was now more pieces of skin and bone held together by careful suturing and a container of transfused blood than an actual human being. A graceful hand extended outwards toward the form literally swathed in bandages from head to toe, hesitated, then drew back in a conscience-stricken manner.

Castiel sat down in the chair drawn up the bedside with a heavy sigh, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and hung his head with an air of desolation. _"Consider now: Who, being innocent, has ever perished? Where were the upright ever destroyed?"_ The angel turned his head to gaze at the woman whose only sin to have put her in such a position was remaining faithful to the Almighty, and allowing herself to become an instrument for His will.

_But could it have really been considered the will of the Father? _Castiel closed his eyes, seeing the wonderful future that Marie Elena Cortez might have had- _walking down the aisle in her mother's white wedding dress; ladies and gentlemen, may I present Dr. and Mrs. Thomas Hartley; saving more than five hundred souls from departing too early; beaming in pure joy as her only daughter became Mrs. Jason Browning- _wondering if all that had happened really was long foretold; if everything really was supposed to work out this way.

The intended purpose of the grace of the Father might have been thwarted by rebellious servants, but of one thing he was sure, and it was that as the sixty-fifth seal, this woman should not have been alive, after what the demon did to break her in body and soul. But she still drew breath, and Castiel knew it was only by a power even higher than that of a minion of wickedness that made it so; it was a direct clash of the might of Heaven's archangel and Hell's second prince, with the former emerging as the victor even when caught up in the iron fist of his disobedient kin.

_For what reason did my brother seek to bind the vessel's soul here instead of allowing her to return to the fields of the Lord?_ Castiel knew the other well, and nothing Gabriel ever did was without purpose. The angel stared at the wall stoically, a fine façade to mask the tumult of uncertainty and frustration within. He knew not what his brother meant to do, nor what the archangel was trying to accomplish or communicate. Clenching both fists, Castiel brought them to his forehead because all of this was just too much; he was now bound to Heaven's order by a sworn oath and his spirit still weakened after being chastised. _Forgive me, my brother. _

"You always did care too much, _Cas_."

The pair of black John Lobb's Chapel with its seamless heel and beveled waist of the sole appeared at the door along with the accented tone and sly voice, clicking loudly to signify the importance of the new arrival who strode leisurely into the room, clothed in Prada cotton khaki and a silken neckpiece. The high fashion, well-cut suit had a finely fitted silhouette showing off an excellent physique, pairing nicely with the striking jade eyes and handsome Irish features, all to disguise the ugliness beneath… "It's just one of the many shortcomings you bear," Belial said casually. A slow smirk crawled its way across Thomas Hartley's face. "But if we were to start talking about weaknesses, I suppose I should go right ahead and confess that you, my dear angel, are _mine_."

"_None of that now," the demon said in a sing-song tone, grabbing Castiel's jaw and forcibly turning his face back. "I want to see it when you break, Castiel," the demon purred. Belial's lust shone clearly through his vessel's clouded eyes; he jerked their faces so close together that the angel could see straight into the vessel's tortured, captive soul but the demon only smirked victoriously in a way that could only be described as monstrous and beyond any evil Castiel had ever encountered before and he was afraid-_

"You will not touch the daughter of Eve," Castiel asserted in a low voice, ignoring the terrifying flashback and swallowing up all prior memories because Heaven's warrior could not fall to this servant of the Pit. Not again. The angel was on his feet, sapphire eyes now sharper than they'd been in a long time as he stared down the demon with steely resolve.

Belial chuckled amicably, although Castiel could see nothing humorous about the situation. "Who, that meatsuit?" The demon gestured at Marie's unresponsive body with a careless shrug. He stepped forward and the other responded instantly, drawing one foot back in a defensive position. Belial held up both hands congenially. "Don't worry, I've already had my fun with her. Besides," he leered, "she's not the one I want to get my hands on."

The demon and angel stood facing each other with less than fifteen feet between the two of them, white orbs locked with piercing blue, waiting for the other to make the first move. Belial casually stepped sideways then, prompting Castiel to mirror his actions in order to keep the same distance until the exact moment arrived for the correct course of action.

"It's been so long, hasn't it?" Belial remarked suddenly, still wearing that damn smirk that would've caused even the toughest man to bawl like a child. The demon's loins were already exploding with heat and desire the longer he gazed into the angel's eyes, imagining the tears they once shed mingling with the heady scent of sweat and coppery blood, oh and the taste of fear, how _delicious-_

"I really have been _aching_ for your company," the demon continued suavely. "You have no idea how lonely one gets down in the Pit sometimes. Of course there's never a shortage on souls, but…" he tsked once, with a thoughtful shake of the head. "No, it just isn't the same with them." Belial took another step forward again and watched in admiration as the angel tensed, muscles stretching taut and graceful in response to just one simple step. _And imagine everything else that I could do just as easily…_ "Substitutes, they've been, all of them," he chuckled, but this time with the closest thing to sincerity a demon could conjure up. "There has only ever been you, Cas. Right from the _fucking_ beginning."

Both supernatural entities could hear the unspoken words that would have come next: _I've only ever lusted after you, fantasized about you, dreamed of tearing you open and drowning in your cries for mercy because no one tastes as sweet as you…_

Castiel, having remained silent throughout the pretty much one-sided conversation, seemed to twitch. His jaw clenched tight, as did a fist and abruptly Belial was crashing into the side wall, head breaking straight through the plaster, striking lumber. A twist of the wrist flung the demon like a boneless fish up against the ceiling, shattering light bulbs and sending showers of sparks downwards to briefly illuminate the angel's hard features as he crushed his tormentor emotionlessly, in stony silence.

With the chest cavity in danger of collapsing inward and an already ruptured spleen to show for the angel's efforts, Belial seemed no more troubled than when he'd been standing on solid ground as his face was ground against the broken glass. "Well this is certainly a surprise," he drawled, delighted. Blood bubbled out of the corner of his mouth and ran sideways off Thomas's face in the direction of the crooked grin. "I had no idea you preferred it _rough_."

The angel's face darkened and Belial's back hit the wall again; a clatter and swish of swift movement sent a tray of surgical instruments flying forth with the demon as their target, twisting deep into the flesh with spiraling motions. Far from grunting in pain or even wincing, the demon lifted a hand calmly, pulling out the extracting forceps from his meatsuit and letting his tongue dart out to lick the tool clean. "It seems like you really know what gets me going, don't you, Cas?" came the guttural growl, filled with nothing but lust and Belial lunged, effortlessly bringing his prize to the floor with a brutal tackle, closing fingers around the angel's throat.

"Foreplay's over now."

* * *

"License and registration, please."

Dean tried to remember how to breathe but with a badge-wearing, gun and handcuff toting officer of the law shining yet another bright light in his face, he was doing a pretty _shit_ job. Normal people would have replied politely and immediately, reaching into the glove compartments and pulling out the necessary paperwork to settle the situation. Too bad there was nothing in his glove compartment save for multiple cell phones, fake IDs (none of which would work in a situation like this), and his gun. Not to mention that his trunk was full of items that would probably land him in hot water with the FBI yet again… _What the hell am I supposed to do?!_

"Sir?" The beam of light shining directly in his eye bobbed up and down as the officer snapped him out of his mini panic attack. "Sir, please let me see your license and registration."

"Uh, yeah-listen." Dean took his hands off the steering wheel and decided to bite the bullet. _Even though I have no idea what's going on and why I have to go to this city in some almanac, or where the hell Gabriel's been inside Marie's meatsuit, it's still a valid excuse…_ "You know the woman that's been missing? I have information-"

"Sir, do you not have your license and registration?" The officer interrupted, sounding annoyed. "What is your name?"

"If you would just listen for a second-"

"Your _name_, sir!"

He was so _not_ in the mood for this. After being pounded into the ground by his brother, abandoned by his angel, sent on what seemed to be a wild goose chase after an archangel's vessel whom he was sure was perfectly _fine_, Dean had finally had enough. But then no, someone had to graciously swim inside his head again and send him another nightmarish waking vision of Cas's _beat to hell_ body and what was really going on in the mythical land beyond the clouds and over the rainbow. "Look chuckles," he growled, turning upon the officer an intimidating glare that would have done John Winchester justice. "Who I am isn't important and I swear to God if you don't-"

"God has nothing to do with any of this, sir," the officer grinned, suddenly in the best of spirits as he drew his gun and flicked off the safety with one smooth motion. "And believe me Mr. Winchester," he drawled out, eyes flashing black, "who you are is _very_ important to a lot of people- and none more than Lilith herself."

_A/N: Well! Hope that made up for the long wait. What type of nasty situation have I stuck Castiel and Dean into now? And where the heck is Sam? I promise you guys won't have to wait as long for the next chapter; please drop a review! _


	6. Sullied

_A/N: All that this chapter entails is the result of some subtle (and other not so subtle) suggestions. I'm going to have to prelude it with a fair __**warning for language and…'violence'!**__ Enjoy, hopefully!_

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke_

Shakespeare called it a garden, theologians called it a temple and Michelangelo praised it by carving its likeness from marble. Regardless of societal rank, profession or belief, a universal thought beheld by all was that the human body was truly spectacular. How else to describe the intricate tapestry of more than two hundred bones enclosing multiple different functioning structures, all sewn together by veins, arteries, capillaries, and sinusoids, then enveloped epithelial tissue? Substantial enough to reign over all other beasts of earth and air yet similarly fragile enough to succumb to decay, sometimes one truly had to wonder- if the body is a desolate shell without the mind, what then, is the mind without a body?

Even more interesting than the wondrous maze of its inner workings was the remarkable honesty of the flesh. The mind conjured up excuses for dissociation's sake, thoughts registered as fleeting and memory was a fickle thing indeed but blood did not lie, organs spoke no mistruth and blood did not betray. Perhaps the greatest responsibility of all the physiological functions fell to those chemicals released by endocrine glands to affect, alter, and regulate other cells.

Hormones drove the impulses and that the mind interpreted as feelings and desires, be it in one's uncomfortably awkward years of pubescence or maintaining homeostasis throughout a lifetime. One of the most widely known workings of that system came in the form of the secretion of the adrenal gland, probably because absolutely every single being in existence had experienced the cool rush of what felt like liquid fire or molten ice streaking through his veins.

With the surge of adrenaline, came one of two responses to the emergency situation that had stimulated such a reaction in the first place- fight, or flight. Dean Winchester was of the opinion that all those biologists with all their book smarts should have had the foresight to document a third: the so cleverly and adequate named, "oh shit" response. Sitting there in the driver's seat, one hand still on the steering wheel and staring down the barrel of a fully loaded Glock 23, there was only one thing running through his mind: _Oh…shit._

Muscles clenched, eyes wide and mouth slightly open, Dean was unable to move, unable to goad his mind into trying to contrive how this could have happened or how to possibly escape. Here he was, trapped like a sitting duck and staring like a slack-jawed idiot, facing a demon who'd gotten the drop on him with nary a rain of salt or a vial of holy water nearby. _Goddamn it, why me? Right, because I'm the one who started it all and I should cease this useless indulgence in my own self-pity to pursue the task set out before me._

He started suddenly, wondering from where the spiteful thought had arisen. _Castiel._ It had been the angel who spoke those words of admonishment to him, but why had his subconscious decided that now would be the best moment to dredge that up out of the mess of everything else inside his head?

"Out of the car."

Dean cracked open the door slowly, inwardly bristling at having to comply with the demon's curt order, but held his tongue, eyes now alert and wary on the gun trained at his head. The hunter set one foot on the ground, then the other, deciding. He'd been in far worse situations than this before, and he'd made it out of them alive well enough- and yet during those times, he'd always had backup, either in the form of some heavy-duty rock salt, or- _Sammy. _

"_You don't know me. You never did, and you never will."_

The sour taste of guilt rose up in the back of his throat and Dean felt a sharp pang in his chest. What the hell was he doing here? Chasing after archangel's vessels for no apparent reason at all, driving aimlessly across the country and experiencing night terrors of the worst kind when his little brother was out cavorting with a demon bitch and getting high off of hell's blood?

_Click_. "Keep moving." The cool muzzle came to a rest against his forehead and he was jerked away from the mental self-disparagement, standing up and cautiously walking a few paces away from the Impala. "Turn around." Feeling very much like a trained circus monkey, he did so with a great amount of reluctance, still trying to figure out how to get out of it all this time around with no weapons, no Sam, and no Cas to help him out.

"Dean Winchester, hmm? THE Dean Winchester." The demon looked him up and down with a victorious smirk mingled with a hint of disdain. "And what's so special about you?" Abruptly, the gun's muzzle pointed downwards and the chill night air exploded in a single flash of manmade fire as the gravel at Dean's feet flew apart into a thousand tiny pieces.

Instead of jumping in shock or shying away in fright as the other must've been expecting him to, Dean stood still, heels rooted into the ground, glare firmly fixed on his face. _It's gonna take a hell of a lot more than that to get me jumping._ He received a somewhat disappointed scowl in return at having ruined some of the fun, but the demon didn't miss a beat in what seemed like a tediously drafted and carefully rehearsed monologue. "Can't dance, though you sure can scream; I reckon every soul in Hell must've heard you wailin' like a little girl..." The black eyes glinted all the brighter with uncouth and unsavory humor. "Apparently you can't even keep an eye on your asswipe little brother."

His jaw snapped shut so tightly and swiftly; it was a wonder that several of his molars didn't crack and Dean lunged recklessly forward, eyes flashing like burning coals and hands outstretched, fingers claw like and ready to do whatever damage possible-

_BANG._

-and was forced back again by yet another bullet, one that grazed past his cheek and this time actually did make him stagger back. "Don't try it," the demon drawled lazily as the hunter fell back directly onto his ass. "Senior management said they'd take you dead or alive."

"Y'know something Winchester, you should have a greater sense of self preservation. You're high up on everyone's list; feel honored. Took me a while to track you down, having to get rid of pesky competition along the way."

"So you've found me," Dean responded dryly, climbing back to his feet as he glowered at this nobody who'd somehow managed to get the drop on him while he'd been… while his mind and senses had been hijacked and otherwise occupied. "Congratulations, chuckles. What do you want, a damn medal? My head on a pike?"

Laughter came, nonchalant and fast in response to the sarcasm. "Oh, I'll be getting a lot more than that when I turn you over to Lilith. Of course," the officer leaned against the Impala, "the greatest pleasure in the capture is in the chase." In a manner much too reminiscent of a certain white-eyed demon for comfort, the demon began advancing forward slowly, step by step. For some reason, although he had no good reason to be afraid of this random demon extra number seven, even with a loaded gun pointed directly between his eyes, Dean found himself backing up. Maybe it was the way those words and the tone they'd been spoken in sounded just too similar to the voice he'd heard for years upon years down in the Pit…

"_You can't run from me, Dean. I'm __inside__ that angsty little noggin of yours."_

"But the truth is, you weren't all that difficult to catch," the demon affirmed albeit a little reluctantly. One black eye squinted at him skeptically. "Thought you were supposed to have some heavenly help. What happened to the angel on your shoulder? Did the prick get knocked off of his perch?"

Instinctively, Dean's right hand reached up to grip the ever-present brand on his other arm that lay beneath cloth; no more painful or burning than any other scar he bore. Something inside his chest felt like it'd coiled tightly and shrunken to the size and consistency of a frozen baby pea. Surprisingly enough, he no longer felt horror or disgust at the sight he'd just borne witness to of the heavens above, nor fear for the angel who by now more than ever seemed like more of a _burden_ in the path of Dean's goal of reconciling with his brother.

Where were those angels, indeed?

* * *

His back hit the floor hard as a result of the brunt, near overwhelming force bringing him down to connect solidly with the smooth linoleum in a bone-grating crash. The angel's breath caught tightly in his chest as the jarring sent shockwaves of pain radiating through his already-worn frame, the impact made all the more hurtful as he was painfully and abruptly of his…_lesson_. There was a much emptier space now between his shoulder blades and the solid surface beneath, where previously there would've been the ever slight cushioning almost, protection now stripped away by the powers above.

Castiel had no time to dwell on past happenstances though, for there was a heavy weight atop his vessel's abdomen and Belial's leering face appeared above him; the demon's ice-cold, steely fingers clenched tightly around his throat, even more deadly than Alastair's. These digits were clenching inward with not only all the darkness of Hell, but they were laced with the chilling venom of sinful lechery. Lucifer's second in command looked down upon his prize, eyes roaming hungrily up and down, licking his lips with a single whisper of a declaration filled with lust.

"_Mine."_

In a movement near-invisible to the human eye due to its swiftness, a fist flew upwards toward the smug face- only to be caught smoothly and with much ease, and as was the other. The demon's manner was cool and calm, patient, even despite his prisoner's frantic struggles. Notably, the attacks might have seemed well practiced and expertly aimed with strength that would have packed a rather powerful punch had they been directed at anyone else, but Castiel's mind was anything but controlled as Belial pushed both captured fists to the floor above the angel's head.

Trench coat now askew and with that priceless expression of petrified fear upon his features, Castiel was a sight to behold. Belial pursed his lips, humming appreciatively. "Absolutely beautiful," the demon said softly, switching grips on the angel's wrists to one hand. He ran his fingers through thick, dark chestnut hair at first in what would've seemed like a loving gesture coming from anyone else at any other time but then fisted his fingers harshly, jerking the head back roughly.

_Almighty God, please, hear my voice for your servant humbly beseeches you in this desperate hour…_ There was no way his spirit would endure this again and come out still intact; he could not undergo such torment again. _Gabriel my brother… I beg of you-_ Was the archangel in any position help him? Or was the Lord's messenger still fighting a battle of his own against his own kin, feeling the torture of having his wings reduced to ash? _Dean…_ Castiel strained against the stronger demon, mind whirling at dizzying speed, mentally screaming out, pleading for the Father whom he wasn't sure was there for Heaven's soldiers anymore, for the brother whom he didn't know if he was able to hear or not, and for the charge whom he didn't think even _cared_.

Belial dragged his hand down along the torso, stroking _his_ angel through the thin fabric of the white cotton dress shirt. _At last, at __**last**__, after all this time…_ Lying flat on his back, hands pinned above his head and otherwise immobilized, his little Cas had never before looked so helpless, so tantalizingly vulnerable, just so downright fuckable- The demon felt the streams of fire shooting through his veins, leaving close to no blood in his vessel's upper body as the ball of heat settled between the hip at the very thought of having Castiel right there, ripe as hell for the taking- it was too good to be true.

"Always did love a man in a suit," Belial drawled, letting his free hand move down the angel's forearm and taut bicep, fingers playing down the neck, yanking once at the dark blue necktie and loosening the knotted strip of fabric. Skillful fingers were unsnapping the first button and pushing the collar aside to reveal the skin beneath and a shudder of revulsion passed through the other's frame, much to the demon's amusement. Leaning over and bending down, he hissed the next words like a curse: "But of course, I'd like you even better _without_ it."

Just the very image of the angel, unclothed and writhing helplessly beneath him made Belial's loins explode in fire and the demon grabbed his victim by the collar, flinging the meatsuit up off the floor and smashing into the wall, tearing away the beige trench coat and black suit jacket in the process. Both articles of clothing fluttered to the floor like dead leaves in a November gale, frightening foreshadowing of what was to happen to one who used to wear them.

As soon as Castiel made contact with the surface, the demon was on him again, slamming both hands up on either side of his head, panting with lustful desire and the angel struggled with all his might, which in truth, wasn't much. Pulling hard, he tried to break free, all the while not trying to surrender to the warped, foul intentions of the demon who pawed at him incessantly, now more concerned with thoroughly ravaging and destroying his physical being than breaking his spirit.

_I cry to you, O Lord; listen to my cry for I am in desperate need! Rescue me from those who seek to tear me down for they are too strong for my weary and burdened soul. _

Alastair never really concerned himself with whether or not the individuals he toyed with had physical forms; all he particularly paid attention to was how to tear the loudest, most primitive scream from his victims' throat. With his judgment and senses poisoned by the blood of unclean, Sam showed that he could've cared less about the difference between soul and meatsuit; all the younger Winchester had been intently focused upon was devastation, pure and simple.

This, though? Only at the hands of this particular demon had Castiel ever actually wished for the release of Death itself.

"None of your little disappearing tricks now," Belial growled low, pressing their foreheads together so he could lock eyes with those twin pools of sapphire whose pupils were dilated wide with fear, to drown in their desperation and raw terror. "You can't escape me, Cas. It's far too difficult of an endeavor for you in this state," the demon muttered huskily, a smirk of amusement touching his lips. Castiel, who'd not a moment before been trying to push back against the demon's weight, was now attempting to flatten himself against the wall, pressing so hard against the plaster it was as if he sought to meld into the barrier itself as Belial ground his hips forward savagely, mercilessly. "Much too…_hard_…"

Castiel's head snapped to the side, the cords in his neck tightening as the angel strained to the limit, turning his face away from the vile creature pinning him in place but Belial merely chuckled low in the back of his throat. "After all, just look at what they did to you," the demon said softly, breath heavy and hot in the other's ear. His mouth moved down the pale neck, tongue flickering out to taste sweat, then biting down hard enough to break skin and draw blood at the juncture between the neck and shoulder. "You're just like me now."

The words struck far deeper and with harsher impact than any mark. _Just like me._ Castiel knew what the fallen one meant, understood the meaning behind the taunt. Belial knew of the punishment the angel had received in Heaven; the demon somehow knew how he'd broken with the near barbaric renting of his wings. _You are not fit to call yourself a soldier of the Lord any longer, you have been disgraced and now neither Heaven nor Earth will accept you. You are worthless and cowardly, too __weak__ to do what needs to be done; you are just like me now. _

Great shame and loathing, self-reproach and disgust simultaneously swelled within Castiel's chest and, coiling what little resolve he had left, the angel drew up enough strength to bring the tray that previously held surgical instruments shooting swiftly across the room, mind screaming out at a thousand silent decibels that he was a son of the Most High, he had not fallen and would not fall; the words erupted from his mouth in a roar of outrage:

"I am _**nothing**_ like you!"

The metal platter slammed into the back of the demon's head, smashing his face into the wall before clattering to the floor and Belial drew back, stunned- but only for a moment. He grinned then, widely, as if wildly pleased with this new development; the action exposed crimson-stained teeth and bloody gums, evidence of Castiel's somewhat effective attack. "I see what you mean," the demon cackled. "You surprise me yet again, my dear angel; I hadn't expected you to be quite so _feisty_." Lifting one hand, he snapped once. "We'll have to work on that, now won't we?"

Two bone rongeurs gravitated upwards from where they lay, having been previously knocked off their tray and flew across the room, like magnets attracted to their source. However, instead of making a pleasant acquaintance with a north or south pole, the twin ten-inch sharp-edged instruments invented for the purpose of gouging out bone decided to make targets out of the hapless individual currently already pinned against the vertical surface by the powers of Hell. Piercing through the carpal tunnel of both wrists, the tools embedded themselves into the wall, efficiently immobilizing the captured angel.

Belial grabbed the well-sculpted jaw with one hand, fingers tight enough to bruise and the navy blue cotton necktie with the other, bringing Castiel's frame forward with one cruel jerk, tearing the ligaments transversing the median nerve and bringing forth spurts of blood. The angel's mouth opened ever so slightly in a silent cry of pain- prompting Belial to move in for a harsh, brutal ravishing; all bruising tongue and teeth, tearing into the soft tissue of the other's lip with sadistic, erotic savagery-

* * *

"And here I thought you Winchesters were the type to go out in a hail of lead, or whatever they make bullets out of these days." The demon said thoughtfully as he nonchalantly sifted through the contents of the Impala's trunk; gun still trained on his bounty. "Sam and Dean, Bonnie and Clyde. Bang, bang, bang, then you're bleedin' out on the ground but still fighting like mad dogs- but now, here you are, lying down and ready to give up already." He tsked through his teeth and smirked at a sudden thought. "Guess that makes you more of the woman now then, hey? Who would've-_oof!_"

The gun clattered out of grasp and skittered across the concrete of the interstate and suddenly the headlights of the police cruiser were casting very different shadows down upon the ground. Dean grappled with the demon, nothing the other's superior strength and speed but there was no way this demon was even one-tenth as _pissed off_ as the hunter was. Fueling all the frustration, fear, uncertainty, and anger of the past year since crawling up from out of his own grave into his right fist, Dean sent it plowing downwards into the grandfatherly face that hid the demon's true visage.

The demon was laughing though, cackling and howling at the top of his lungs even as his meatsuit's jaw splintered with one well-aimed punch. "Look at you!" he shrieked out in delight, grinning up at the elder Winchester. "Now I see… You've got _daddy_ issues; it's just too _big_- all ways of saying that you haven't got the balls, ain't that right?"

"How 'bout I smack that smartass right out of your mouth?" Dean hissed out from in between gritted teeth, grabbing a fistful of the officer's uniform and hauling the demon up off the ground threateningly. Unsurprisingly, the response he got was even more callous laughter.

"You spineless dick," the demon sneered. "You ain't gonna stop _nothin'_. Guess it's all up to the pain in the ass little brother who's already gone apeshit, huh? Nothing but the angels' little bitch, and what've they put you up to so far, huh? Shining their haloes and fetching the paper?"

"Shut-" Dean growled, pounding the demon's face into the ground just for good measure, feeling the blood wetting, warming his knuckles but not caring that the popping sounds his fists were procuring was actually him smashing in the face of a thirty years veteran of the police force… _The angels' little bitch…what've they put you up to so far? _

_What have I accomplished?_ Dean nearly froze completely, one fist cocked over his shoulder because the thought suddenly hit home, and a lot harder than he ever expected. What the hell was he _doing_? Playing hide and seek and ridiculous guessing games with those dicks with wings who were proving to be more messed up than the emissaries of Hell themselves while he _let_ Sam run amok with the demon bitch?

"-Even put a brand on you and what've they given you in return? A whole lot of nothing and still-"

Abruptly, his limbs jerked into motion again and Dean was shoving his boot into the man's nose with a tremendous 'crack', vision going hazy red. Twisting around, he reached into the trunk, cocked the shotgun, and shoved barrels into the demon's mouth, not stopping to think about just why the creature had given up so easily, not even considering the fact that maybe, just _maybe_ he'd been set up and was meant to hear all of these taunts that made his blood boil- "Go to Hell."

A grin around the edges of the cold metal, words muffled but understandable nonetheless- "No need to sonny boy, it's comin' to a theme park near you, full of thrills for the whole family!"

_BANG._

_

* * *

_

The world felt extremely heavy and strange, somehow unreal and all too dream-like, as if he was leaving the hallowed halls of the holy dwelling above to enter into a vessel. _I am cut off from your sight…_ Every time he tried to make sense of a barely coherent thought it slipped away and twisted weirdly, morphing into something else. _Yet You heard my cry for mercy when I called to you for help…_Shapes and colors danced together, melding into one and then separating form each other piece by miniscule piece, particles of pigments against a stark canvas.

Castiel hung heavy from the spokes driven through his wrists, now completely drained of the last remaining vestiges of strength. _Have You heard my cries?_ But as of right now, the angel was incapable of doing anything, much less crying out for help or mercy from the Father. He tasted the metallic, coppery warmth of blood within his mouth and panic flared upon the recognition of its foulness. It was not that of his vessel's, for it was tainted with the darkness from below and rendering him not delirious this time around, only utterly powerless to do even so much as lift a finger.

A finger crooked underneath the chin and then there was a white handkerchief pressing against the Castiel's torn lips, carefully wiping all the crimson streaks snaking down the pale skin. "How's that for a taste?" Belial grinned, folding and replacing the cloth in his breast pocket before removing his suit jacket completely, tossing aside the article of clothing carelessly as he approached the angel again, _his_ angel.

"Don't worry, dear Cas," he purred, loosening the knot now wet with blood before slipping the cloth off from around the angel's neck. "Don't fight it; just enjoy it." Agile fingers slipped downwards, deftly undoing one button and then another, revealing the healed, unmarred flesh beneath. "Then it won't hurt…" Belial twisted his fingers in the angel's hair, jerking back the heavy head "…as much."

On sudden impulse, the demon raked his nails down the angel's pale chest; the hands of a surgeon, so often covered in latex and working to save lives, now drew blood unrelentingly. "Get my meaning, or at least the _thrust_ of it?" He bucked his hips forward, watching in delight as Castiel mutely protested, blue eyes shattering with each movement and were those the beginnings of _tears_ he saw? "You're so quiet, my angel." Belial let his hand slide down the now-bloodied torso, fingers digging into each rib on the way down and pausing for a brief moment, moving back and forth across the abdomen caressingly. "How rude of me, I've been doing all the talking. Wouldn't you like to say a word or two?"

There was nothing but silence of course, and Belial's smirk widened as his hand wandered down further- "Talkative, aren't you Castiel? Ah, now there's a _mouthful_." The demon's fingers latched onto the belt buckle then, slipped the piece of leather away hastily because this all he'd been wanting for forever, since laying eyes on this naïve, sapphire-eyed little brother of his and having everything from intrusive, overprotective archangels and falling from Heaven getting in the way of him and his prize. But there was nothing in the way this time and there was definitely no blood left in his meatsuit's head at all; he was ready to feel _skin on fucking skin-_

"And I believe that's enough."

Castiel was gone, nowhere to be seen and the demon found himself leaning against a blank wall, with only the two bone rongeurs still stuck there to prove that all of it had really happened, and that his Cas had been snatched out from right underneath him again, literally- and Belial was…_pissed off_. Jaw clenched tight, with every single muscle in Thomas Hartley's body taut, the demon turned around, white eyes burning with unquenchable rage to settle on the pleasant, smiling face of a slightly portly businessman clothed in a black pinstripe suit.

"Couldn't let you have it all right then and there," Zachariah said in a tone one would use in trying to placate a child on the verge of throwing a tantrum. "After all, Castiel is still needed. You may have him when he is no longer an asset." The angel smiled wider; the gesture looked stale and forced. "How was that for a taste?"

* * *

"_The Lord himself goes before you and will be with you."_

Not trusting himself to stand just yet, he leaned against the brick wall with the cold night air biting into his vessel's exposed skin. The chill seemed to almost widen the claw-like scratches he had not the strength to heal that spanning the length of his torso as he tried to fit the tiny buttons back into their respective holes with trembling fingers.

"_He will never leave you nor forsake you."_

Angels never had to worry about buttoning up a dress shirt, but apparently neither did the heavenly host have to worry their vessels getting _undressed_... His limbs felt heavy but it was not from the cold as he tried to loop the navy blue strip of cloth around his neck, tucking it under the collar but he couldn't do it; his hands wouldn't stop _shaking_-

"_Do not be afraid; do not be discrouaged." _

Giving up on the article of clothing, Castiel drew his knees to his chest, hugging his knees like a frightened child and ducking his head, letting the tears stain the dark fabric of the dress pants. _Father, where art thou now?_

_A/N: I actually have to struggle with trying to decide whether or not to post this chapter as is, or to censor some parts out. I still can't believe what I've written. My apologies, first and foremost, if I have offended. _

_**Tell me; is it still possible for all of you guys to adore Belial after this chapter?** __**Please review!**_


	7. Fidelity

_A/N: And how do I possibly thank all of my wonderful reviewers? All of your comments and questions always make my day. This chapter is a bit more transitional, but I hope all of you enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke_

"So the Lord said, 'I will wipe mankind, whom I have created, from the face of the earth- for I am grieved that I have made them'… On that day all the springs of the great deep burst forth, and the floodgates of the heavens were opened. Everything on dry land that had breath of life in its nostrils died; every living thing on the face of the earth was wiped out…"

_He watched as the men and women scrambled up onto their rooftops, clutching their naked babes and dragging squalling children along, or even abandoning the little ones, selfishly desperate for the salvation of their own souls. They clawed and fought their way toward the peaks of the highest mountains as the water rose and swelled beneath their hopeless ascent, always going up and up, higher still. Man and woman lifted their wretched faces to the raging black skies, the piercing rain harsh against their suddenly frail bodies, screaming and pleading for the mercy of a God they had forsaken first, shrieking out please, __**please**__ save us-_

"_Castiel!"_

_The sapphire orbs focused so intently on the ghastly spectacle below shifted and the angel turned at the sound of his name, spoken forcibly and with a hint of what almost seemed like a threat. He immediately stood at attention, head slightly bowed in deference at his superior's presence. The other though, was not easily placated by the show of submission. "What is it you are doing?" _

_Silence passed for a moment between the two celestial beings as the lesser angel tried to come up with an adequate reply before raising a bewildered gaze mingled with shreds of lament. "This…this senseless slaughter bears no meaning or validity. Why has this come to pass?" _

_As soon as the words left his mouth, Castiel knew it had been an unwise choice. His superior swelled ominously with righteous anger, large wings extended to their full span with great gusts of air; the features of Heaven's warrior grew even more foreboding with holy fire as he bore down upon the younger brother. "YOU DARE TO SPEAK OUT AGAINST THE COMMAND OF HEAVEN?"_

"_**Peace, Zachariah.**__"_

_Both turned at the command, for it truly was an authoritative order, given by one with more than enough power and position to issue such an order. Shining with holy light far brighter than any other of the Heavenly host, the Chief Prince of all the angels approached soundlessly, with the grace and elegance that always embodied everything he did. This time, however, although the directive was calm, there were the undeniable hints of disapproval in the features lit by sanctified fire, an unspoken admonishment in response to the sight of one brother bearing down threateningly upon the other. _

"_Castiel doubts the Father's will," Zachariah spoke the words in such a way that could only be described as a vehement hiss, seemingly somewhat disappointed at the intrusion but all too eager to expose the other's supposed shortcomings-very much like a tattling child. "Let his tongue utter not such foul sacrilege; only the fallen ones dare to speak this blasphemy." _

_Piercing silver eyes narrowed slightly ominously at the charge and in one deft movement, all six of the archangel's wings were unfurled, sweeping even the luminous fields of Elysium with a dangerous air, a silent warning against such an insinuation that had just been vocalized. "__**Do not speak thus**__," came the voice, cool and calm- and yet one did not have to strain to hear the sharpness of tone. "__**Our brother must learn through instruction, not rebuke or chastisement.**__"_

_Castiel did not speak, and neither did he lift his gaze although silence had descended once again, as the presence of one of the others departed. Speaking in such a manner to his superiors was not only an unwise choice, but it was an unexpected one as well. Never before had he thought of disagreeing with the orders of Heaven, never before had the slightest temptation arisen to act in the manner of the fallen. He still remembered his rebellious brothers who'd been cast from the courts of Paradise, their pride and arrogance; their lies and greed. None of those had been his intentions when he stared down upon the Father's creations as they disappeared beneath the waves. _

"_Castiel."_

_His name was spoken with a voice that always resounded with all the power of Heaven itself, as evidenced from the exchange not a moment ago- but now was filled with not authority or commandment, only a gentleness that seemed almost strange to be coming from this glorified individual, he who stood at the Lord's left hand. "Thy face is downcast," Gabriel observed quietly. "Why art thou so troubled in the halls of the Almighty, brother?"_

"_I…" Castiel paused, unsure of how to reply. He had no desire to make it seem as if there were seedlings of disobedience within his soul, nor did he wish to offend his elder brother, he who had been the one sounding the trumpet at the Almighty's command, he who released the floodgates above and below. "I do not understand." Even here, surrounded by the glory and light of all that was pure and consecrated, the wails of the condemned still assailed his ears, the last despairing howls torn from the throats of those about to face eternal damnation. "Mankind, they were…they were down there, all of them, alive; families, men and women, and now-" He could not continue, for Castiel knew not how to continue, or how to explain the despondence that was such the angel had never experienced before. "Why were they unable to be saved? Why was it necessary for their destruction?" _

_A sigh, then a hand upon his shoulder made the lesser angel lift his head to face the compassionate eyes of the Lord's messenger and an understanding rarely bestowed upon any other of their kin. "Cast thine eyes down upon man again. What dost thou see that is worth saving?" _

_Castiel was a steadfast warrior of the Lord, with faithfulness as fierce as the greatest of the Seraphim; and yet Gabriel knew the other was of a pure and tender soul, not so accustomed to harsh judgment or damnation. Whereas several viewed this as weakness, the archangel was determined to help his younger brother retain such sensitivity and integrity, qualities that were all too often burnt out by swift obedience and near-mindless execution. "There was naught but pain. In the halls of our Father, all is forgiven; there wilt be peace for all." _

"_Then what of the Garden?" The inquiry burst forth rapidly, having been held back too long without answer. "Why did man have to squander the paradise so freely given?"_

"_Thou knowest man's fall was Lucifer's doing." _

"_But the Almighty created all things in His wisdom and perfection; was such tragic destruction not preventable?" Sapphire orbs met cool silver straight on, seeking truth and an explanation. "Was there no way-"_

"_**Castiel.**__"_

_He immediately fell silent, for while Gabriel's voice was not great in volume or brimming with impatience or a reprimand, the archangel was gently insistent. "Our Lord works in mysterious ways," Gabriel said quietly. "It is not our place to question His design, for there shalt always be that which thou dost not understand." The archangel guided his brother away from the scene of the great deluge, turning away from the sight of the Lord's wrath and grievance himself. "All is part of the will and wisdom of the Almighty. Have faith, brother."_

_Down upon the earth the rain stung like acid tears, bitter and remorseful, but it was a sorrow that promised vengeance. The gales continued to moan over the cries of the helpless, matching the swell of emotion that still pulled at the angel within-_

The gentle breeze wrapped its chilled fingers around the slouched figure, its deceptively feather-light touch sending a shiver through the battered frame leaning against the hard brick wall. The white dress shirt that had been conservatively tucked back into the black pants was buttoned neatly, if a little rumpled and the leather strip at his waist seemed almost worn with the amount of times trembling fingers had scrabbled at the belt, trying to buckle it the correct way. All of this combined with the blue length of cloth looped loosely around his neck equaled an image that didn't quite add up, for what was this man dressed like a tax accountant doing, sitting in a back alleyway in the dead of night?

"_The Lord works in mysterious ways."_

Gabriel's words rung out, majestic as pealing bells within his mind but now they gave him no comfort. Castiel took a deep breath, once again trying calm his soul with the presence of the Lord's creations, but the memory of a time in which all of Creation had been destroyed swam into the angel's mind. Shifting slightly, he winced as the rough edges of the unforgiving brick seemed to dig into the fragmented edges of tattered wings, still not fully healed from being scorched by holy fire.

Was this all truly a part of the Almighty's plan, for his angels to be humiliated by the servants of darkness and tortured into submission by their kin? What was the _purpose_ of the deception that drove the Winchester brothers apart, of the manipulation and all of the pain? _Is this the will of the ever-merciful Father who loves his children?_ The breeze grew stronger, slitting through the thin dress shirt to brush over the long, deep scratches beneath, in almost a mocking reminder of his disgrace.

"_Have faith, brother._"

A shaky chuckle tumbled from bruised and swollen lips. Heaven's messenger always had a way with explaining things, having been bestowed with great wisdom and the gift of comfort and speech by God Himself. How else was it possible for Gabriel to have closed the mouth of ravenous lions or delivered the greatest news to a terrified young virgin girl? _But how, my brother, would you explain this? _

Guilt and sorrow stabbed at him then, and Castiel upturned his face to the black, starless sky. Where was the archangel now? Suffering under the hands of their kin, hands that could be crueler than the fallen? Doubt clawed at the angel's soul, baring dangerous claws sharpened to tear down an already withering resolve; exhaustion had already etched its lines in the pained features. What was to become of them, of this world, when all of these twisted games finally reached-

"_Cas!"_

The word shot through the stillness like the crack of a whip. He whose name had been uttered turned his head sharply at the demand, as if expecting to see the one summoning him standing not a few feet away. Only the emptiness of the dark night met his eyes, only a piece of litter floating down the street, carried on by the delicate touch of the wind and Castiel hung his head again with a shudder, thinking he'd only imagined it, merely another hallucination brought on by the depravity of unclean blood-

"_Hey! I'm in need of some angelic assistance here! __**Castiel!**__" _

It was unmistakable; the timbre, the baritone quality of the voice, the same impatience and defiance against authority that personified the hardheaded hunter more than anything else and Castiel glanced upward with a look rarely found upon the face of an angel- but with a glimmer of light in his tired blue eyes, a gleam of hope. _Dean._

Perhaps there was someone who had not yet abandoned him.

He stood stiffly; trying to gather what strength he had left into the damaged wings attached to his shoulder blades, unseeable to the mortal eye. Lifting his chin and with a whisper of a prayer to the God who probably wasn't there to receive it, Castiel disappeared- leaving only a navy blue strip of cloth fluttering lightly to the ground.

* * *

"Ruby-" Sam scrubbed at his face so hard that it left the skin red and raw. "I can't do it."

"We've got to get going, Sam. You heard her, St. Mary's Convent. Now let's get on with it!" At the other's look of reluctance, the demon threw her hands up in the air with a growl of frustration and narrowed her dark eyes crossly. "Do you want to stop Lilith or not? I already told you that I don't _have _as much as you need to-"

"Then we can get someone else!" The younger Winchester paced back and forth in front of the old shanty, large boots pounding out furious indentations into the mud. "It's just that…" He ran his fingers through his hair nervously. "She's got a job as a nurse in a maternity ward; she's got a husband and probably not even a damn speeding ticket her entire life, I can't just…" Sam stuttered over his words, unwilling to even say aloud what both of them knew had to be done.

"What?" Ruby snapped impatiently. "Can't drain her dry? She's a demon, Sam. What makes her so different from any of the others that you've killed?" She gave a dry bark of derisive laughter. "_Wake up_, Sam! Can't you see the bitch is playing you?" _We're wasting time; just do it already!_ "I'm not Oprah or your high school guidance counselor who's going to sit on a couch, hold your hand and dry your tears, alright? It's not like you're asking her out to the prom; we're trying to stop the damn apocalypse- and I don't see what's wrong with that!"

Sam swallowed hard, knowing that he'd never actually been in a high school long enough to go to the prom was a moot point, but still- _There's no way…_ "I'm sorry," he said rather lamely, hands falling down to his sides uselessly. "I can't do it. I won't."

Demon and hunter stared at each other for a few, sparse seconds before Ruby rolled her eyes skyward and clenched her teeth. "_Fine_." It came out like the hiss of a snake and the girl reached down into her boot, pulling out the flick knife stowed away there. "If you're so worried about having 'saving the world' on your resume by putting this on your stupid conscience, I'll do it." Pushing past him, she stormed down the muddy road and slipped into the decrepit building via that door that was still slightly cracked.

He should've stopped her. Or at least followed along. In the hours, days, months that were to follow, Sam Winchester would look back upon the moment in which he watched the demon girl disappear behind the door that hung askew on its hinges as he did nothing, with regret.

A startled cry broke the night. _Damn it!_ Suddenly Sam was affixed with tunnel vision, slipping on wet grass and the sludge that oozed up to his bootlaces, pitching forward unsteadily with nothing but the crooked pieces of rotten wood standing as a sad excuse for a door because that hadn't been the nurse or the demon possessing her, but…

"Ruby!" His hands were large and clumsy, like catchers mitts, so he opted for ramming his shoulder into the barrier and as he tumbled into the small space within, the younger Winchester caught glimpse of one hand thrusting outward and a pair of startlingly white eyes- _Lilith?_- before something light exploded in his skull and darkness enveloped his senses.

Black museum calf Bringtons moved over the straw and dirt, halting when their wearer stood above the fallen hunter, staring down scornfully. "So, he comes whenever you call, does he?" came the lilt that was more British than the handsome Irish features would have suggested. The rhetorical question seemed like it should have been accompanied by a touch of amusement, but there was no such indication in the biting voice or the cold eyes that focused on the demon girl pinned to the wall by an unseeable force. "It seems as if some of us have gotten what we wanted, while others have not."

"You," she gasped around the fist now clenched around her chest, ripping the very breath from her lungs. Ruby's eyes frantically scanned the room, landing on Sam's prone from. _Damn it Sammy, now's not the time to be taking a nap! _

"It's really not fair at times, is it?" The superior demon mused aloud, sauntering over to the boarded up window and cocking his head to the side as if examining the decaying wood. "But words are just words, and promises are fragile, unreliable agreements made by those too weak to prevail; deals are only as good as those who make them." He lifted a hand, flicking a finger against the air and the boards snapped in half like twigs, letting a sliver of moonlight that shone eerily on his vessel's fine features. "And who knew that there could be so many _bad_ people in the world?"

Leaders were only as great, their legacies only as enduring as the fear they inspired, whether that fear was rooted deep in the hearts of their own people or reflected in the eyes of their enemies as the killing stroke fell. And what in the world procured more fear that Lucifer's very name? What man did not know, was that most of the horrors and incidents of inconceivable barbarism that all too often were attributed to the captive Son of Perdition actually were orchestrated and seen through by the Hell's second in command.

Ruby swallowed hard, now thoroughly terrified. Whereas mankind remained blissfully unaware, heaping blame and credit upon the Devil, every single soul that had ever passed through the gates of Hell knew of the true mastermind; he with the charm of a Southern gentleman, the appearance of a fop and all the eloquence of Shakespeare himself- but what he was most infamous for was his sadistically complex temperament. Far from being just another nameless nobody cracking the whip in the depths below or even settling for being merely one who inflicted agonizing pain like Alastair, Belial was greatly feared for not only what he'd done, but what atrocities it was rumored he was _capable_ of.

Everyone possessed the ability to express anger, because it was impossible for even the most innocent of souls with even the sweetest disposition to have never felt the swell of inconsolable rage in his chest, seen nothing but red in a fit of anger or felt his blood boil with the heat of a thousand suns. This burning, searing emotion tore through petty words and manufactured situations like trust and love with scathing words and an uncontrollable impulse that always brought about regret and pain after the fact. Hot anger consumed like the flames of the damned, using whoever had been foolish enough to unleash it.

Belial was said to have never been seen angry- except once. No one knew exactly the reason why or the circumstances surrounding the situation, but all who were there to bear witness definitely remembered the powerful demon's blank, calm face and the icy promise of death in eyes that had turned into twin piercing diamonds. Lucifer's hand-chosen Captain was always in control, and thus it was no wonder that even in his rage, Belial remained perfectly unflappable- or so it seemed, until the demon proceeded to wipe an entire civilization from the face of the earth, leaving the corpses of its inhabitants lying out to rot like fruit peels in the sun.

Now, here were the same measured steps, the cordially conversational tone and seemingly random topic- but this was different, and it was precisely those minute nuances that made the demon girl shake like a dead leaf. There was no self-possession in the hard set to Belial's jaw or the glint of psychopathic insanity in his eye and with a wild scream, Ruby found herself suspended from the ceiling by the ankles, at the mercy of one royally pissed off demon- who was known to have none at all.

"No, it's not fair that you are to pay the price for another's insolence, especially that of an angel's," Belial murmured, still staring up at the ceiling, addressing an unseen companion. "But 'tis the way the chips fall. Ah, c'est la vie, m'dear." The demon snapped once and a terrible sound like a knife slicing through an overripe watermelon brought forth a fountain of blood splattering down against the floor.

* * *

Dean turned in a half circle, watching his own huffing breaths of frustration fog up the chilly night air, peeling his eyes for anything out of the ordinary, straining his ears for the slightest flutter of heavenly appendages. _If I don't get some answers soon…_ He resisted the urge to hurl an expletive, open-throated, at the sky right there in the motel parking lot. He'd hand enough of this aimless dance; he'd had enough of being pawns in this pissing contest between the angels and demons, both of which had taken more from him than the elder Winchester realized he'd been willing to give.

Sam was his brother. _Was? It doesn't matter what he's done, he's still Sammy._ Dean swallowed hard. He'd lost sight of what that meant, but he wasn't going to let it happen again. Clenching both fists, the hunter brought them up to his forehead in a vain attempt to drive out the demon's taunts that haunted him, but to no avail. It wasn't going to happen, he told himself vehemently, because he was going to get to the bottom of this mess now, tonight.

There was the barest hint of a whisper of movement that sounded like it was coming from above and Dean turned swiftly to see the familiar trench coat standing beneath a lamp post a couple of parking spots away, and blue eyes meeting him. "Well, it's about time," He rasped out, throat feeling like it was coated with sandpaper. "I've been screaming myself hoarse out here for about two and a half hours now, Cas."

_Cas_. The angel flinched involuntarily at the moniker that he'd been addressed with first by the man standing before him, but-

"_How sorry are you now, you son of a bitch?"_ _The fist connected solidly with his mouth and Castiel bit his lip so hard that he bit clear through it, closing his eyes and trying not to face his tormentor because the boy knew not what he was doing. "There's no miracle at the end of the road this time, no one to come looking for you. You know why, Cas?"_ _Sam slurred the nickname mockingly, raising Lucifer's blade once again-_

"_Well, would you look at that; it's just you and me now." The face was different but the filthy lechery and sadistic lust shining through the man's eyes were the same and Belial lifted a finger, trailing down along the angel's jaw and playing across the lips. "I will have you this time…let's play, shall we, dear Cas?"_

_No._ Castiel shook the torturous memories from his mind. He would not think upon such things, the man standing before him now was different. Dean Winchester's only fault was being of little faith and too unyielding of both head and heart; one thing the angel was sure of was that the hunter would never surrender his thoughts, actions, or speech to such heartless depravity.

Dean stalked forward, hating how collected the angel appeared, how unfazed by the knowledge that he was certain Castiel already _knew_, of the impending apocalypse and of _Sam_. The frustration boiled up within his chest and suddenly he wanted to do something rash, to grab the angel and knock some sense into him- when he caught sight of the bruises on the other's face, saw the busted lip- apparently someone had beat him to it. The anger was still there though, and the next statement slipped out impulsively, caustic and uncouth. "Well, who were you getting your freak on with?"

Angels did not shock easily, and it was even rarer that they were rendered speechless, although being warriors of Heaven most of the time did not require speaking at all, only swift and justified action. In the next split second that elapsed after the elder Winchester's flippant remark, Castiel was strangely incapable of any comprehensive thought or coherent reply.

It lasted no longer than that though, and Castiel felt himself deflating as any hope he'd formerly held evanescence. "What do you want?" he asked quietly, dejectedly, because it was obvious Dean Winchester held no interest in anything besides his own agenda. The angel barely heard the other's answer and merely replied as was to be expected, hands still dug deeply into the pockets of the trench coat to hide the wounds inflicted upon his wrists, because there were clearly other more important matters the hunter had called him on account of. "What do you mean?"

"Cut the crap; you were going to tell me something."

_Something._ Castiel automatically stiffened, his vessel's muscles going taut. Dean was directly in front of him now, eyes burning a furious emerald that demanded a response and so the angel looked away to hide that which he knew but had been…_persuaded_ into silence over. "It was nothing of import."

Dean scoffed. _Don't give me that, you son of a bitch._ "You got ass reamed in Heaven; now you're acting like some abused altar boy and it was _not of import_?! Hey!" Castiel had turned away slightly and he stepped in front of the other, considering grabbing a hold of the angel when clouds decided to part at that moment like an overused cliché for a dramatic moment. Dean's eyebrows shot upward at the finger-shaped bruises marring Castiel's neck. _I thought angels could heal themselves with miracles or something- what the hell is that?_ And was it just him, or was the angel's _tie_ missing too? Sapphire orbs were shifting to meet his again though, and Dean quickly shook himself from the absurd observations, but his mouth would not close, and the nasty voice in the back of his mind was determined to make itself heard.

"Oh, you've been real busy with things of import, I see," was the first spiteful accusation and Castiel's eyes snapped away again; heat was rising to his face. "I wouldn't have pegged you for the BDSM type of guy," came the next hurled like a projectile from a slingshot and with his words, Dean Winchester had perfect, deadly aim. "Guess you angels aren't as _pure_ as everyone thinks you are."

He could not remember the last time mere words had felt like bearing the brunt of a thousand stabs from Lucifer's blade and there was a strange obstruction in his throat; Castiel swallowed hard and moved away from his charge, inhaling deeply. "Get to the real reason you called me. It's about Sam, right?" Silence fell, but he dared not turn around to face the harsh, cold eyes of the hunter.

When the reply came, it was a defeated whisper. "Can he do it?"

There was no need for further illumination for it was clear who 'he' was and what 'it' entailed. Castiel's eyes closed in anguish and another shadow was cast upon his soul for now he realized what his superior had taken the time and the trouble to deliver him from the snare. _Why else? _And why did he not have the foresight to realize this before? "Possibly." _I'm sorry, Dean. _But what good was an apology for the deception he was about to present? "Consuming the amount of blood it would take to kill Lilith would change your brother forever." The angel turned with painful reluctance. "Most likely, he would become the next creature you would feel compelled to kill."

The expression of stark, wounded terror upon Dean's face was nearly as terrible as the hunter's insensitive words that had been spat out in his exasperation and Castiel found himself wishing that none of this was happening, that such responsibility had never been forced upon this young man of but only thirty years. "There's no reason this would have to come to pass." He moved back toward the hunter, wishing to say something, _anything_ to erase the fear from the elder Winchester's face.

"We believe it's you, Dean. Not your brother. The only question for us is whether you're willing to accept it." _Heaven has burdened you with the task of stopping it, but there is no reason for Lucifer to rise in the first place._ "Stand up and accept your role. You are the one who will stop it." The lie tasted foul as it tumbled slowly out of his mouth and Castiel grimaced, wondering if this was how it felt every time a falsehood was spoken. _Do not accept it Dean, do not listen to what I have just said-_

"If I do this, Sammy doesn't have to?" It hurt to speak the next words, and Castiel took a deep breath, knowing that there was nothing more he could do.

"If it gives you comfort to see it that way."

Dean's jaw tightened and he turned away, frustration threatening to brim over again. "God you're a dick these days…" There was definitely something wrong with Castiel, but as of right now he was incapable of feeling anything but frustration toward this angel who, with all his cryptic mind games, could seem able to give one straight answer. _Screw you and your god…_ "Fine, I'm in."

Castiel fixed his gaze emotionlessly someplace far off in the darkness. _Forgive me._ "Do you give yourself over wholly to the service of god and his angels?"

"Yeah, exactly."

"Say it."

"_Swear thy allegiance!" Zachariah stood over the shaking, broken form, reaching down to take a firm hold of the lesser, lifting him clear off the ground- "SAY IT!"_

"I give myself over wholly to serve God and you guys," Dean said slowly, grimacing at the way the oath sounded, even to his own ears. Castiel's eyes bored into his, bearing something he couldn't comprehend and a frown creased his brow at the haunting, hunted look in the angel's worn sapphire eyes. _Cas, what the hell is wrong with you?_

"You swear to follow His will and his Word as swiftly and obediently as you did your own father's?" _Refuse, Dean. Do not swear it, do not fall into this trap that I have led you into, please do not-_

"Yes. I swear. Now what?"

"_WILL THOU OBEY?" came the thundering demand and Castiel could bear the agony no longer; he lifted his head and howled out a single word of affirmation. _

"Now it's time."

_A/N: So, hopefully I didn't bore all you guys to tears. Ruby's going to get it, Dean has sworn his allegiance, Castiel's done his part and…who knows what Sam is doing? But __**important!**__ I'm going to have to take another short hiatus because I'm off camping next week, and will be deprived if internet once again. I'm sorry for the delay, but until then, please review! _


	8. Falsehood

_A/N: I wanted to thank all of you for your wonderful reviews, patience, and commitment. Hopefully I won't have to take another hiatus before the end…here's another slightly transitional chapter; enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke_

_The translucent amber liquid swirled about the inside of the flute, reflecting off the restaurant's lighting that had been dimmed per the owner's request as the evening progressed. The couples waltzing together on the dance floor were moving slower now, merely shifting their weight from foot to foot either in the heat of romance or simply from too much drink, all to the long adagio strains of the harp. French manicured fingernails tapped lightly against the thin stem of the fluted glass and the blonde woman's lips were curved upwards in a self-assured smirk. _

"_So, do we have a deal?"_

"_You know what you are suggesting in such a proposal, do you not?" Robert St. James's smooth voice intoned, floating out of the semi-darkness, neutral and composed. A flash of silver rolled across the back of the hand lying on the table as he flipped the knife over the fingers, from knuckle to knuckle. The glass of red wine sitting before him sat untouched after having been refilled by the maitre d', deep crimson as still as the grave. "And what makes you think that I'll have anything to do with this scheme?"_

"_Betrayal of our Lord and Master, treason to the highest degree…" Lilith shrugged nonchalantly, raising the flute to her lips. "I've had a long time to think it over." The demon leaned forward, the faded blue eyes of her vessel holding the cold grey orbs across the table. "Which is exactly why I know you won't turn down my offer." She sat back, crossing one leg elegantly over the other, an action that caused the sheer red cocktail dress to slip upwards a couple of inches above the knee. _

_Any other man's gaze would have drifted downwards, but the grey eyes didn't shift at all. The knife flashed as it rolled over his thumb. "It's __your__ neck that's at stake, not mine."_

_Instead of being deterred by the flat statement as one would have expected, Lilith stood and sashayed around the table, slinking sensuously over, singing out the notes of a siren's deadly laughter. Standing behind the other's chair now, she leaned down and draped her arms over and around the man's trim physique, lowering her mouth to whisper seductively in his ear. "I may have never been an angel, but even I know how much you want him." _

_The piece of cutlery slipped from suddenly slack fingers, clattering to the rich, white linen tablecloth. Grey eyes did not budge from their focal point across the room; rather they seemed frozen on the sight of the reflection in the large, floor length mirror: the beautiful woman leaning over the handsome man, Eve offering up unto Adam the forbidden fruit- but no morsel of even the most delectable sustenance, no pleasurable company, no sin man had ever been enticed into committing could have been more sweetly poisonous than the words that rolled silkily out of the demon's mouth. _

"_You dream of that darling innocent angel, don't you?" Blonde curls brushed against the clean-shaven cheeks as Lilith inhaled the elegant fragrance of blended fresh blackberry and tobacco flower. Her fingers drifted upwards to massage the muscles in Mr. St. James's neck, the kneading bringing about more pain than pleasure, yet he didn't do so much as even flinch. _

"_He's the only one you've ever dreamed of touching…" The hands slowly moved around the neck and slid down the man's shoulders. "He's the only one you've ever fantasized about, writhing and __**screaming**__ in pain…" Lilith purred, tongue darting out to flicker at the other's ear. "Completely under your dominance." _

_He still didn't move as lips dragged across the back of his neck, but the strong jaw clenched tightly. "Ravishing his pretty little mouth and tasting him…" Hands moved down his torso, caressing him in a sultry manner. "Those eyes haunt you still, don't they? Those big, sapphire eyes are all you see, all you want to see when you fuck him senseless…" Lilith felt the tenseness in the meatsuit underneath her hands and she smirked, going in for the kill. "And how many times have you lost him?" The whisper was an inquiry, an offer, a daring taunt. She traced a finger up along his neck, digging her nail into the thrumming pulse. "Just how many times has he slipped right through your fingers, Belial?"_

_He said only two words then, just two- but they were filled with more rage and frustration than any jilted lover could express, all carefully restrained and delivered crisply, icily. "__**Sit. Down**__."_

_It was an order, and one that she dared not defy so Lilith hastened to take her seat again. As she did though, she noted with a delicious shiver of triumph how Belial's eyes were white now, and she knew she had him. Hell's second prince was staring across the restaurant at a young man with dark chestnut brown hair but his eyes were a disappointing hazel brown and so Belial turned back to the lesser demon sitting before him. "You know as well as I do that Sam Winchester is insusceptible to a great deal." _

"_But his bitch, Ruby, isn't. You kill her, and then poor Sammy won't have a clue what to do next." Lilith smiled cattily. "Think about it, Belial; I'm not asking for much, and in the end, everyone wins. Lucifer stays where he is, the both of us get to go back to the good old days, and I'll hand-deliver your precious angel to you myself." She leaned across the table, licking her lower lip once in anticipation as the other seemed to process the information. "So are we agreed?"_

"…_yes." _

"_Lovely." She smiled and sat back, obviously pleased with herself as she looked the other up and down, from the features that would've put many a model to shame to the body that clearly reflected the trials of a committed athlete. "So…would you prefer bathroom or backseat?" Although the chilling stare she received in return to the provocative suggestion was far from seductive foreplay, the lesser demon shrugged. "You know that it takes a lot more than a mere kiss to make a deal with me." _

_Belial turned away, face arranged in an expression of just having tasted something extremely sour and left out in the sun to spoil. Lilith reached across the way and lightly brushed her fingers over his hand with a chuckle. "Oh I know I'm not exactly your type, but you can close your eyes, can't you?" Her voice dipped low, dropping to a husky timbre. "It may be slightly difficult, but you can imagine that you're spending tme with your dear Cas-"_

"_We have a deal." Belial's hand was clenched into a hard fist, white eyes threatening to burn a hole in the magnificent marble floor. "Now get out."_

"Do you know what a lie is?" He paced the length of the shack's interior space slowly, languidly. "It's a false statement deliberately presented as being true." His stride was easy, controlled; measured. "Something meant to deceive, or to give a wrong impression."

Belial turned, a look of thoughtful interest upon his face. "You know, lying is very much a skill; it's an… an art form, shall we say. Some are good at it, while others..." The demon clicked his tongue. "Let's just say that they don't have such exceptional talent."

Ruby glared, but winced as the action caused the deep gash spanning the length of her face to open up even more. "You idiot," the lesser demon hissed venomously, not caring that this was Lucifer's second in command to whom she was speaking with such disrespect. "Have you gone _completely_ insane? We're on the same side here!"

"Of course, I myself being the master of all falsehood, know a thing or two about the differences between fact and fiction." Belial continued conversationally, raising a hand and moving his fingers like he was playing scales on a piano- and as if on cue, each of the ribs lining the interior of the captive demon girl's meatsuit snapped inwards, collapsing the chest cavity. She choked on the coppery wetness, shocked at the intensity of pain that was at a level beyond anything even her own infamously deadly dagger could inflict.

"Thus, I must confess myself bemused- or amused, perhaps, that certain individuals would even have the _audacity_ to lie to my face." The demon sighed and shook his head piteously, as if sorrowing over the utter stupidity of said individuals. "Empty words," -a joint popped out of its socket and was promptly crushed into powder by an unseeable force. "Blatant falsifications…" –the connective ligaments between the femurs and tibulas of both legs split and the bones pushed up against each other forcefully, shooting up through skin. "Broken promises and _deals_ that don't mean a damn thing…" –the clavicles and scapulas wrenched away from each other, jabbing out at impossible angles through the fleshy part of the biceps- "I see through them all."

"BELIAL!!" Ruby shrieked out blindly, literally due to the blood streaming downwards into her eyes, making the world a mess of sticky redness. Her voice sounded like that of a wounded jackal's; fear and pain rolled into one as she heedlessly demanded the attention of he who had the power to end her by simply willing it. "_What the hell do you want?!_"

"What do I want?" Belial repeated slowly, pivoting sharply and stepping right up close to the helpless demon girl, white eyes taking in the gory spectacle he was creating but there was no satisfaction, nothing that could quench the frosty rage streaming sluggishly through his veins. What did he want? _A new pair of shoes after wallowing around in this mud hole, a fine glass of wine, and… _A flash of blue eyes registered in his mind's eye but disappeared as quickly as it came."Something that _you_ certainly have no hope of procuring, my dear."

She saw then, saw the inconsolable fury behind the demon's composed outward appearance and knew there was no buying, bartering, or pleading her way out of this one. _No. _The panic flared up to immense proportions as Ruby opened her mouth to emit a scream of pure terror, even as a sharp _pop _sounded out and her vessel's spinal column jutted backwards, curving in the wrong direction. _No, no, no_- "_SAMMY!!"_

"You sad, sad little girl," Belial hummed aloud, as if charmed by the futile scream. "Must have thought you were the most loyal out of all of us, no?" He said in a friendly manner, circling around the other. "You and Lilith both…" A chuckle rolled out of his mouth. "When will any of you children learn that Lucifer doesn't give out shiny gold stickers or plastic trophies? Azazel has already met his end, Lilith's pretty little mouth will soon be silenced…and you?" The demon shrugged and waggled his fingers in an informal gesture of farewell. "Just another obligatory offering, another victim for the slaughter."

His fingers were moving up and down, up and down but Ruby could do nothing but _watch _her impending destruction in the simple movements of the pinky, ring, middle, forefinger, thumb- one kidney deflated like a flat tire, as did the other; the spleen ruptured; the stomach's acids burned through the organ's walls and the intestines coiled tightly together like a spring before that spring was violently released, tearing through the walls of muscle and skin-

"Son of a bitch!" Was the screech, right before both of the demon girl's lungs imploded, sending geysers of blood and phlegm up through the trachea and gushing out in torrents. The cracks and noises sounded out incessantly, like a disturbing melody of morbid proportions. Bones sprung out of place, arteries popped open to leak their contents away out onto the ground; their harmony being the gurgles and other sounds of pathetic struggle coming from a mouth now overflowing with crimson. "_You son of a bitch!_" Or, rather, the accusation sounded like _hiss, gurgle, splat._

Belial casually sidestepped a patch of blood, cocking his head to the side in amusement. "Well, _technically_ I would be a bastard..." He tilted his head to the other side and then came the howl of unspeakable torture as the two rows of straight, white teeth jammed themselves firmly into the gums, burrowing deep into the pink flesh. "But right now, I am just very…" Ruby's howl became an unintelligible wail- "…_very_…" The girl's comely features became anything but that when flesh began to melt like candle wax, oozing away from the cheekbones, her forehead- "…put out."

* * *

The worn soles of his shoes scuffed lightly against the polished wood floors as he walked past the marble table, letting his calloused fingers slide over the ridiculously smooth surface, feeling very much like the pauper wandering around in the prince's rich and ostentatious palace. Dean glanced at the empty urn sitting in the middle of the table momentarily before turning to the large, framed canvases on the wall; oil masterpieces worthy enough to be put on display alongside the Mona Lisa. _So what am I doing here staring at them, and where is here?_

Turning around, he started, and stared. The table, which had been nearly empty not a moment before, now bore a platter piled high with some very tempting cheeseburgers, chock full of saturated fats and cholesterol-laden promises of a heart attack- his stomach growled, reminding him that it'd been more than twenty-four hours since his last meal but there was no way he could have been able to stomach _anything_, not with the mess that'd been his life as of late- and a decorative, wide vase filled with ice and beer. _Who- how…_ He reached out and lifted a bottle of chilled beer, just to make sure it was tangible and not a figment of his imagination.

"Hello, Dean."

His head snapped to the side at the unfamiliar voice, which was oddly cheerful and belonged to a stout-looking man who looked for all the world like a CEO who grew fat on the labor of those below him without doing so much as lifting a finger. The man gave him a once-over, still smiling in that queer way that suggested he knew something the elder Winchester did not. "You're looking fit."

_Creepy._ "And who are you supposed to be?"

"I'm Zachariah, Castiel's superior." The man, now identified as Zachariah, stepped aside slightly and only then did Dean see and recognize the trench coated figure standing a little further back, hands clasped behind his back and shoulders squared with soldierly resolve, chin lifted stoically but there was only one thing Dean could think of-

"_My superiors have begun to question my sympathies… I was getting too close to the humans in my charge. You. They feel I've begun to express emotions; the doorways to doubt." _

_Castiel's superior._ Dean's jaw tightened because something about that phrase came across as just…_wrong_ in a sense, because something about this new angel was definitely off kilter; he scoffed to hide his unease. "So what is this, where the hell am I?"

"Call it a green room." Zachariah spread his hands in a gesture of welcome, then began to walk forward amiably. "We're closing in on the grand finale here, wanna keep you safe before show time." For some reason, Dean felt a strong urge to step back, but held his ground instead, rocking back on his heels slightly. "Try a burger. They're your favorite." The older man raised his eyebrows with that same, unsettling lopsided grin that reminded the hunter too much of politicians who offered up one hand to shake and drew out knives with which to backstab anyone and everyone with the other hand. "From that seaside shack in Delaware. You were eleven, I think?"

_A day away from turning twelve, actually._ It'd been the closest thing to a birthday dinner he's ever gotten, which was partially the reason why these burgers stuck out in his memory as exceptional. The wax paper-enwrapped patty on a bun seemed like a bribe now even though the burger in and of itself seemed real enough. "No, I'm not hungry."

"No?" Zachariah's cheery disposition faltered for a second at the rejection, before turning back with renewed vigor at what there was to offer. "How about Ginger, from season two of Gilligan's Island?" He quirked an eyebrow suggestively. "You do have a thing for her, don't you?"

Dean's thoughts wandered back to the alluring redhead he'd so often seen on the fuzzy screens of those archaic boxes with rabbit eared antennas in countless motel rooms, and something like a half grin touched his lips. "Tempting." A frown creased his brow. How was it though, that this angel who he'd never met before now knew of his pubescent fantasies? Dean's jaw tightened at the idea of the angels rummaging around in his head. "Weird…"

"We'll throw in Mary Ann for free," Zachariah prodded, always the savvy businessman, ready to up the ante in order to seal the deal.

"Ah, no. No." The hunter straightened, focusing once more. "Never mind that…I want to know what the game plan is."

Zachariah raised his chin. "You let us worry about that; we want you focused. Relaxed."

_So you offer me beer, burgers, and women? It's the freakin' apocalypse; how relaxed do you want me to be?_! It was ridiculous to the point of being funny, in a sense. Dean felt a very strong urge to slam his fist against something, preferably the closest object- which at the present moment was the angel's demi-potbelly. "Well, I'm about to be pissed and _leaving_, so start talking, Chuckles!"

Molars ground once against each other and then the angel heaved a sigh, disappointed that all manners of distraction proved useless. "All the seals have fallen," he said matter-of-factly, walking around the elder Winchester. "Except one."

_Well, you dicks really know how to handle matters of import, don't you? _"That's an impressive score, that's- that's right up there with the Washington generals." Dean snarked, turning in a half circle. He didn't trust this newcomer enough to leave his back exposed, especially when it was clear that he had no idea what was going on. The reply he received was even more brutal than what his own sharp tongue and quick wit could form.

"You think sarcasm is appropriate, do you? Considering…" the fleshy face was facing him again, arrogance and superiority in the accusation, "you started all this?"

Guilt. It hit fast and hard, stinging like a whip of nettles and Dean's gaze fell to the floor. _Goddamn you._ "But the final seal…" A hand clapped down upon his shoulder as the angel walked back to his original position between the elder Winchester and Castiel. "…it'll be different."

"Why?" It came out as a low growl, harsh-sounding from trying to move past the stinging from the unwelcome reminder and Dean glared hard to squash down the bile rising up in the back of his throat. _"And as he breaks so shall it break…"_

"Lilith has to break it. She's the only one who can." Dean's brow furrowed even deeper because damn it, this incessant smiling was really starting to get on his nerves, especially since he saw nothing about this situation that was amusing in the least. "Tomorrow night, midnight."

"Where?"

"We're working on it."

_That's not good enough. _"Well, work harder!" _What is it with angels and their cryptic little riddles?_ He had to know where Lilith would be if there was any chance of catching up to Sam and making things right between the two of them again.

"We'll do our job, you just make sure you do yours."

Zachariah's voice was quiet and conciliatory, but Dean had had enough. _Don't give me that crap._ "Yeah, and what is that exactly? I'm supposed to be the one who stops Lilith; how, with a knife?"

"All in good time."

_What the hell-_ "Isn't _now_ a good time?"

Castiel knew what was coming next and he shifted uneasily; his fingers brushed against the barely-closed wounds in his wrists and the angel swallowed hard. _Please understand this, Dean._ He knew the other was going to hate him for this betrayal; then would come the lashing of the sharp tongue and cutting words, somehow more terrible than the cruel chastisement of both Heaven and Hell. Angels were not supposed to feel this _small_ or this afraid over how their charges responded. Indeed he'd been able to deal with the elder Winchester's arrogance, stubbornness, frustration and lack of faith before because then, he had been a soldier of the Lord, defending the will of God.

But this was different. Castiel tried to still his troubled soul, but could find no comfort in this enclosed area, this trap that he himself had played an integral role in setting. He'd never before willingly deceived the hunter, _everything_ he did was in order to protect Dean Winchester, he'd only ever worked to ensure the safety and welfare of his charge.

"_Swear your obedience."_ The words rung out tauntingly in his ears and it choked him, having to lie, to assist in Lucifer's release. Surely this was not God's plan. The Father would've never willed this.

"Have faith." Zachariah intoned, but the words were dull and meaningless.

"What, in you?" flew back Dean's sharp retort. "Give me one good reason why I should."

Castiel's shoulders hunched; his superior was advancing slowly upon his charge then, threateningly. _This is for the good of mankind Dean; this is your destiny and you will be the one to stop Lucifer, such deception was necessary but you will then be at peace- _He had no one left; this Castiel knew. Almighty God was more or less missing from his own Kingdom, his brother was nowhere to be found and unreachable even though Castiel had tried numberless times to reach the Lord's messenger…and now, as Zachariah more or less spat out the order, the angel's heart clenched in anguish because now Dean Winchester would abandon him as well.

"Because you swore your obedience...so **obey**_._"

Here was the catch, the ugly truth unveiled, here was the sting of a traitor's guilt as flinty emerald eyes found and held his. _I'm sorry. _There was so much accusation in that single gaze, so much betrayal that it was nearly palpable-

_You lied to me Cas; I trusted you and you manipulated me, you dirty backstabbing son of a bitch-_

And as he clenched his jaw tightly, lowering his gaze, Castiel felt neither peace nor the satisfaction of obedience, only great shame.

* * *

_Plip. Plip. Plip._

The droplets slid downwards slowly, some catching on torn pieces of cloth and others slipping off the jagged edges of white bone or sliding into gouges in flesh created by skin and muscle torn asunder. Crimson trails colored the drab grey and dark brown water logged wood of the small shack, streaking across the floor, all four walls, and the ceiling as well; Picasso's wet dream with a touch of Francisco de Goya a macabre example of abstract art.

Belial circled what looked like little more than a large piece of bloodied meat hanging from the ceiling, more disconnected sinews and barely-there flaps of skin than a body, more dead than alive. It was truly a sight to behold and while he admired the masterpiece, he couldn't help but think that the blood of another tasted far sweeter, that hearing the screams forcefully torn from a certain angel's throat was more of a symphony than any of Beethoven's compositions. _My dear, dear Cas… _The demon inhaled deeply to avoid the now-buried vexation and anger. _I will have you soon._

Playing around with his latest captive certainly been cathartic, but the job was not yet done. One tap of his foot brought the trough that had been standing against the far wall shooting across the room, coming to a halt directly underneath the corpse. Belial clucked his tongue. "You know my dear, you were actually one of the more talented ones out there. It must have taken some clever words to make Sammy believe you actually wanted to help him." The demon shrugged. "Although I suppose you often put those lying lips to _uses_ besides persuasion. Let me divulge to you a little secret then, one liar to another." Extending one clean hand he made a rotating motion, pushing the body into a position so that all the blood now dripped into the trough. "Take comfort in the knowledge that your hard work will not go to waste."

Belial smirked, his words addressed to no one in particular, seeing that the only individual present still alive besides himself was currently unconscious. "Well old sport," the demon said pleasantly, turning then to the prone figure of the younger Winchester, "drink up."

After all, killing Lucifer's first wouldn't be an easy task. But with Hell's second prince there to guide him, how could anything go wrong?

* * *

So this was guilt, this black snake that felt like it was devouring his soul piece by piece, with each fabrication he spoke and every order he now carried out. Castiel watched his charge stalking around the interior of the small room, one impatient step after another, footsteps resounding with frustration but it was hard to stand there doing nothing so he turned away quickly, directly into his superior.

"He wants to speak to you."

For the first time in what seemed like forever, Castiel felt a small glimmer of hope. As he moved past the other to enter into the holding space where Dean paced, the other angel reached out and grabbed a hold of his shoulder; fingers digging mercilessly into the tender appendages there that were still healing. "Don't tarry, brother," Zachariah said amiably, giving the lesser angel's shoulder a firm squeeze.

The warning was clear. _Remember to whom you swore your obedience._

_A/N: Wow, I've been all over the place in this chapter. Hope all of you enjoyed seeing Belial in a slightly different light. He's certainly interesting, isn't he? Ruby's finally gone, Lilith shouldn't have tried making a deal with the lord of lies, and Dean is soon going to find out the truth! Please review! _


	9. Fate

_A/N: The enthusiasm with which all of you reviewed the last chapter was incredible. All of the wonderful feedback you offer is what keeps me going, so a heartfelt THANK YOU to everyone! Enjoy the chapter!_

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke_

Ask any woman who had ever fallen for a man, any woman who'd ever signed her heart and happiness over to another; she who gave her hand to that Prince Charming upon a noble white steed or the bad boy in the leather jacket- they would all utter the same universal truth, that which was often denied but sometimes the truest thing that ever fell from the lips of mortals- the way to a man's heart was through his stomach.

Well, perhaps not solely by means of a deep-dish pizza slogged over with three different kinds of cheeses and every topping imaginable or the finest cut of medium-well sirloin, but it was indeed through appetite that men operated and were thus controlled. Even the strongest, most upright, noblest of them all succumbed to their own individual desires to satisfy what to them seemed a most dire need, a gaping hole that could be filled by neither words of comfort nor love, sex or companionship, _nothing_ besides what their consciousness demanded like a cracked out addict. Sometimes it indeed was the powerful rush of a drug that consumed all, others turned to their careers that then in turn became their entire lives; those chasing after a dream unattainable by earthly means yet willing to sacrifice reputation and more to sample artificial gratification, just once more.

King David and Bathsheba, Achilles and his hubris (not to mention that damn heel), Adolf Hitler and his Final Solution; lust- pride- greed- vanity- _more more more_.

Sometimes though, man's character was seriously underestimated. There were those who would sacrifice the chance to whet his appetite, both literally and the one that clawed at his soul, howling to be satiated, to do what had to be done, to stand firm for those who needed him, to be the man he was meant to be. And damn it, even though his stomach felt like it was ready to turn itself inside out to start digesting his other internal organs, Dean understood that there were larger concerns, not to mention that he still didn't trust the angels enough to touch a thing they provided for him.

_Larger concerns? _God, now he was starting to sound like those dicks too.

He paced around the room's perimeter, hands down at his sides, hanging there stiffly as he walked, surveying the finery of his surroundings with an equally stiff air, nearly marching due to his rigid posture. The elder Winchester was not often in the presence of such pomp and circumstance, having only witnessed such ostentatious ornamentation once a while back, while investigating a haunting at the Biltmore Estate and somehow managing to pass as an awestruck tourist while scanning the palace-like structure with the EMF. It made him uncomfortable, like the angels were flaunting their extravagance in this gaudy display, making him the child in the china section of the department store- _don't touch, you break and you buy._

_Just another form of control._ Dean glowered at the wall, dark eyebrows pulling together over his nose as his eyes narrowed. Anger coiled tightly in his gut and his heel stomped firmly against the ground; his hand reached outwards and casually tipped over the porcelain statuette of the angel, watching with a certain smugness as it tumbled to the ground, shattering instantly upon contact. _Suck on that_.

"You asked to see me?"

Dean whirled around, startled at the deep, gravelly, (and as of late) flat voice to see Castiel's eyes lowered down to the shattered pieces of the little porcelain angel before blue orbs raised to his face. _Uh…_ The hunter's mind stuttered incoherently for a moment because while he would hesitate to define the expression on the other's face as visible hurt, there was definitely something about Castiel's gaze that sent a pang of guilt streaking straight to his core.

That old unearthly stare that burned past flesh was still the one that he'd first seen nearly a year ago, underneath a shower of sparks, calmly unblinking and resonating with the remote power and mysteries of countless millennia- and yet Dean balked. Yes, it was the same unfathomable gaze but now so tired, so hurt, so half-there. Dean knew that look. It was the stare of a kid coming back from the battlefield, having realized too late that the stories of glory and war were tales kind mothers made up for their sons after seeing his comrades blown to bits and pieces all around him. It was the one he'd been seeing in the mirror staring back at him ever since that gate in Wyoming busted wide open- _haunted_.

All this he saw clearly, but he brushed it aside, casting his eyes to the ground briefly to alleviate the sudden heaviness he felt, trying not to stutter as he put forth his request. "Yeah, listen, I uh- I need something."

"Anything you wish." And Castiel meant it too, eager to please his charge. Dean's face held no animosity and the angel was ready to do anything the elder Winchester asked to possibly make up for the earlier underhanded deception. _Anything._

"I need you to take me to see Sam."

Since laying siege to Hell and gripping Dean Winchester, since raising this specific soul from perdition, many things had changed, more in this one year than Castiel cared to document or realize. For the first time, he'd begun to doubt, he'd begun to feel- and now this, this black despair was something else because the angel knew that Dean's request was one thing he could not fulfill. "Why?"

"There's something I've got to talk to him about."

And so he stalled. "What's that?" Castiel tried to come up with a way around having to directly deny Dean, because the last thing he wanted was for those hazel eyes to shift to blazing emerald again as they stared into his, angry and full of accusation. And so as the elder Winchester walked forward, saying something about a BM about making it 'snappy' he turned his head away. "I don't think that's wise."

"Well, I didn't ask you for your opinion."

The words were flippant, the tone was all sarcasm and attitude- and suddenly annoyance flared up, something only this particular human was able of making an angel of the Lord experience. Castiel turned back, his voice a low growl as he glared at the only one capable of getting under his skin. "Have you forgotten what happened the last time you met?"

"_You don't know me. You never did…and you never will." _

He almost flinched, but didn't. "No." A pause filled the air then, pregnant with the painful memory. "That's the whole point." Dean took in the set of the other's jaw then, the furrow between Castiel's brows and for an instant the hunter saw a brief flash of the angel who fought against Alastiar on his behalf, the powerful being who had threatened to toss him back into Hell. But then the gaze flickered away, unsure, and Dean saw the bruises, reddish blue, purple and green and sickly yellow, spanning downwards like a child's messy finger paint, made all the more garish against the ridiculous showiness of their environment. "Listen," he tried again, gentler, this time in a more earnest tone, eyes flickering away for a moment because for some reason he inwardly winced each time those marks met his gaze. "I'm gonna do whatever you mooks want, okay? I just need to tie up this one thing." _Come on Cas, this is all I'm asking for; I __**need**__ this._ It was the only chance he had at mending the divide between himself and his brother. "Five minutes, that's all I need."

Castiel's answer was a soft, defeated heaving of a breath, but with a hint of defiance. "No." Quietly proud of himself for at least trying to defy his charge, but inwardly afraid that his resolve would crumble into nothingness at the same time, the angel repeated the word to himself. _No._

"What do you mean, 'no'?" Dean's eyes narrowed a fraction of an inch. "Are you saying I'm trapped here?"

There it was again, the same suspicion and distrust that Castiel had worked so hard to dispel; was all of it to come to ruin now? "You can go wherever you want-"

"Super," the hunter snapped brusquely. "I want to go see Sam."

"Except there." Castiel could see Dean's mind turning, fingers twitching slightly, and the way he wet his lips with decision. He knew the other inside out, to his innermost core as well as the prickly exterior; he'd been there at the hunter's most vulnerable moment in the Pit so it was no small wonder the angel had grown to anticipate the sharp retorts.

"I want to take a walk."

"Fine, I'll go with you."

"Alone."

_Alone._ There'd once been a time when Dean demanded that one word, but the emphasis had been aimed toward Uriel, an exclusionary directive for a moment of confidence between the angel and his charge. _I wanna talk to Cas, alone._ Castiel still remembered the surprise and the strange surge of gratitude at the words, as well as the fear. It was the same fear that gripped him now, in way that was nearly physical and so he tried to put more force into the denial. "_No_."

Impatience flashed over Dean's features. "You know what, screw this noise, I'm out of here."

As the hunter stalked past him, Castiel didn't know whether to feel relieved at not having been swayed, or crestfallen. "Through what door?" The comment fell flatly from his lips, curt and sardonic because otherwise he would not have been able to leave as quickly as he did then with Dean's frustrated expletive burning his ears and fueling his guilt. _Dean, I can't. I'm sorry._

A chuckle, and then a pang shot through Castiel, harsh and undulating as Zachariah's large hand slapped down upon his back again. "Headstrong, isn't he?" He remarked good-humorously. "That attitude is going to need some adjusting though, to be of use when-"

Castiel instinctively jerked away from the touch and without thinking, interrupted hotly, in a manner that was very much…_like Dean._ "My charge is not your pawn to be used and manipulated." _**My**__ charge. _It was more than a retort, sharper than a warning, weightier than a protest- it was a challenge without so many words, spoken in a tone filled with reckless threat.

Zachariah's eyes narrowed. "Don't get surly with me boy," the superior angel said dangerously, voice as cutting as broken glass. "I _will not_ tolerate it."

* * *

Sam was used to the darkness.

His childhood was not one of boy scouts and fond memories of fishing trips or birthday cakes, no candles to mark the passing of the years as he grew a year older, one year more mature than most his age, and all the more deeply entrenched into what _was _his life- the dingy grey carpets of the motel rooms of questionable sanitation that served as poor excuses for the home he never had, the shiny smooth black barrel of the sawed-off shotgun loaded with rock salt, the black of the back of his father's head because John always seemed to be walking away from his sons.

There used to be light though, however dim or faint- the cheap gold lettering on the high school diploma and later the acceptance letter from Stanford that changed so much; the sunlight caught in Jessica's golden hair; the beaming of Dean's true smile, so rarely witnessed and so rarely offered. But the diploma and acceptance letter were now collecting dust in a dump somewhere, Jessica was gone, and Dean never smiled anymore, at least not the genuine grin that Sam used to see when waking up from a nightmare, when giving his older brother a badly wrapped Christmas present, when kicking back together with a beer in a diner.

He was a Winchester though, a member of a family that seemed doomed to a crappy existence with no such thing as the promise of a happy ending; he was used to the darkness. The memories swum around in his mind like fleeting tatters of last night's dream, although… _When was the last time I had a good night's sleep? _Sam pushed the shadows away, shoving the intangible grey tendrils that had wrapped themselves around his mind and limbs with near-physical force and sat up, head pounding and feeling as though his skull and the insides of his eye sockets had been scraped raw with steel wool, blinking to clear his fuzzy vision and trying to remember what had happened.

As everything went from black to starry focus like the snowy static on a television screen, Sam's mind flipped through his last memories like a motion picture show. _The nurse, Cindy- scratch that, the demon. St. Mary's Convent. Cindy screaming, begging, pleading for mercy… bursting out into the muggy night air; no, no, no, he couldn't do it… arguing with Ruby… then a scream-_ "Ruby?"

His eyesight cleared then… and Sam really wished that it hadn't. _Oh…God._

A trough sat in the middle of the tiny shack, ominous and silent. Sparse shafts of moonlight that filtered in through the poorly shingled roof hit and cast off its contents, something thick and opaque, filling the narrow but deep container nearly to the brim. Tension seized his shoulders in an immovable grip but fear sent a shudder through his frame.

A shadowy form was leaning haphazardly against the side of the feeding vessel, as if thrown aside and discarded and though something in Sam's gut twisted, he climbed to his feet and approached cautiously. He felt the screw tightening notch by notch as his eyes adjusted to the dimness and made out what used to be white tennis shoes, worn for walking quietly down the halls of maternity wards, the faded blue of a nurse's scrubs, speckled with random sprays of red…

"Damn it."

The blasphemy rolled easily off his tongue and past his lips but it wasn't spit out harshly or filled with anger; instead, it was whisper of weary defeat. And for yet another instant in not quite such a long time, Sam felt like falling to his knees and cursing Heaven, Hell, Lucifer, Lilith- damning all of them, all if _this_ back into nonexistence or wherever the mess came from in the first place because it was just too much. Standing there and simply staring at Cindy McKallen's horrified white face with eyes frozen forever in that look of stark terror half-submerged in the pool of blood inside the trough, the younger Winchester clenched his fists so hard that his nails bit into his palms.

_She didn't deserve this. _His mind wandered back to the countless sacrifices that had been made for the sake of this ridiculous cockfight between the forces from above and those below, feeling the guilt and regret for each and every single unfortunate soul who'd been unlucky enough to have his meatsuit hijacked stabbing at him so hard that his chest _ached_. None of them had deserved this, not even those who'd been taken by the angels because he knew for a fact that the warriors of the Lord put their vessels through more action and terrifying _shit_ than any normal human being would've been able to see or bear in a lifetime.

_Plip. Plip. Plip._

The noise startled him out of his mental tirade and Sam's eyes which not moments prior had been weary and tired, were now intellectually sharp, bearing the same scrutiny he usually only reserved for intense research on a particularly difficult case. _What the…_ There was definitely way more than six liters of blood in that trough, even if poor Cindy had been drained dry, which, gathering from the fact that she'd nearly been decapitated, was the case.

Another figure stood out darker than the surrounding blackness and from it came a steady drip of crimson beads, like droplets of moisture slipping from the mouth of a loose faucet. Holding his breath, Sam inched closer even though that voice in the back of his head that usually whispered _bad idea_ was now hollering at the top of its lungs to _stay the __**fuck **__away_. The form was moving in a slow circle, hanging suspended from the ceiling like a slab of meat; it swayed slightly, and-

"Oh shit! _SHIT_!!"

This time, he did holler to the high heavens, throat jerking up and down weirdly, jaw working furiously yet unable to utter anything beyond those horrified words as he stumbled backwards and away from the grotesque, hideous mess that used to be Ruby- or her meatsuit, at least. Clumsily, he tripped over something and fell solidly, striking his head hard upon the wall-

_She smiled at him; a beguiling, seductive smile as she propped a curvy hip on the side of the trough and flicked blonde tresses away from her heart-shaped face. "Poor little Sammy," she crooned in a singsong voice, pupils and colored irises disappearing as her eyes slid to white. "What're you going to do without your whore here to guide you?"_

"_Lilith," Sam seethed, ready to leap to his feet and strangle the demon, but found himself unable to move, anchored to the ground by invisible shackles. Lilith, meanwhile, paid him no attention and instead amused herself with pushing Ruby's swinging carcass back and forth with one perfectly French manicured fingernail where there used to be an eye socket and the hunter shuddered. God, Ruby's face was so messed up that it was hard to tell which holes were supposed to be there and which ones weren't. _

"_Annoying little bitch," Lilith murmured, tilting her head up to examine the extent of the damage, but it was overwhelmingly clear that no life remained in the empty shell. "Always getting in the way." The demon turned back toward Sam with that same disarming smile that wasn't fooling him a bit. "And you can stop trying so hard, Sammy. I called in a favor with some of the higher ups and trust me…you can pull and tug all you want and you won't be able to budge." A frown creased her brow. "Of course you're still unaffected by my…charms, so-"_

"_So what do you want?" Sam spat harshly, still struggling. _

_The blonde shrugged, smile growing wider. "To talk." _

"_Not interested."_

"_Hmm…" She sauntered closer, and Sam tried to push back and away. "Even if I'm offering to stand down?" _

_Stand down. His eyebrows arched and for a moment the hunter merely gaped, open-mouthed. Why now? Why, when it was clear that the demons were so close to achieving their goal, to setting Lucifer free to walk the earth and wreak havoc upon all that was good in the world? His mind spun at a hundred miles per hour. Did this mean a stop to the breaking of the seals, the apocalypse, the whole nine yards?_

"_Bingo, Sammy." Her teeth were straight and pearly white, reminding him very much of a shark's right before they snapped down upon their prey. Lilith took to one knee, reaching out and closing his jaw with an audible click before he jerked away from her touch, disgusted. "You're wondering why?" A glimpse of something dark and bitter flittered across her face, twisting and distorting the comely features into the garish visage of a demon- "Turns out things are playing out differently than what I had planned. I'm tired of playing this game." _

_She snapped to focus again, face rearranging back into normal; wide pink lips stretching upwards into a smirk. "And you're tired of it too, aren't you?" She reached out a hand and ran her fingers lightly down the side of his face. "You're sick of not being able to save seals, of having to sacrifice so much, of losing." Lilith sat back on her haunches, chin in her hands, eyes holding his. "You can end it Sam. And I don't ask for much."_

_He swallowed, hard. Once. Twice. His throat was coated with sandpaper. "What do you want in return?" _

"_Castiel." _

_The name sliced into Sam like a dull knife painfully sawing its way through a Christmas ham. "Castiel?" he croaked. "The angel?" His head was suddenly throbbing as he recalled the silky strands of coolness pulsing lightly in his hand, immeasurably fragile and yet at the core of what made a warrior of Heaven what he was, shredding to pieces as his fingers crushed inward… None of this made sense, though. What the hell did Lilith want with an angel, and Castiel nonetheless?_

"_Yes, the angel." Lilith glanced down at her fingernails, examining them in the dim lighting. "The scruffy-looking, trench coat wearing one with bluer than blue eyes and that befuddled pigeon-ish head tilt?" Her glance flicked back up to meet his, playful and mocking, as if she knew how much pain the name in and of itself caused. "The one you ripped open like a piece of raw meat?"_

"_But-" Sam stuttered incomprehensibly. "But he's dead." _

_Lilith laughed then, a sound that most definitely caused at least a thousand babies in the world to burst into tears simultaneously and stood in one fluid motion. "Oh, Sam. I thought you were the smart one. You can't even kill me, what makes you think you have the power to end an angel? No, Castiel is very much alive and still causing trouble for us all." Her eyes narrowed. "I'm not asking for your head on a stick, or even your brother's. All you have to do is get Dean to call his little guardian angel-"_

"_No." _

_The demon fell silent and the smirk dropped away from her face. "What?" _

"_I said '__**no'**__," Sam growled, seeing in his mind's eye the crimson on his hands that were now imprinted into the whorls of his fingers, the utter anguish etched into the lines of Dean's face as his brother bent over the angel's unmoving form, grief that was so unbearable that it hurt- "You'd better start running again Lilith," the younger Winchester hissed. "Cause it's going to be game over soon when I end __**you**__."_

He jerked suddenly, as if awaking from a deep slumber and the bodies were gone, Lilith was gone; nothing remained but the trough filled to the brim with that which called out to him and tempted him, acting as both an empowerment and damnation at the same time. Chest tight, Sam found the strength to get to his feet and made his way over to the feeding container, gazing down morosely at the crimson wetness. It was thick and darker than anything any horror movie could procure- but he was used to the darkness.

* * *

_BANG._ _Stupid angels- BANG. Friggin' dicks- BANG. _Dean grunted with effort as he hefted his makeshift club into the air again, aiming at the already pretty good-sized chunk in the plaster. _Hang on Sammy, I'm getting out of here. _His biceps and triceps flexed as he swung forward-

At a painted unbroken wall, as perfect as if it'd just been erected. Dean blinked, reaching out to brush the smoothness with his fingertips because who knew what was real and what was the angels messing around with his head anymore. _Damn it._ "Son of a bitch," he muttered aloud, eyes skittering upwards to search for any other possible escape route.

"Quit throwing feces like a howler monkey, would you?" He whirled around at the jolly voice that belied the admonishing words, jaw clenching tight as he stalked forward, mind echoing with the words of another angel- _We've wasted enough time with these mudmonkeys_- "It's unbecoming."

"Let me outta here." It was a growl, rolling out from deep within the hunter's chest.

Zachariah's reply to the dangerous advancing was nonplussed; his tone like one used to explain to a frustrated child exactly why the square block couldn't possibly fit into the star-shaped hole. "Like I told you, too dangerous out there."

"You're not sweatin' my safety," the hunter accused, voice rising as his eyes narrowed. "You're lying." The other cocked his head slightly as if surprised at the allegation but Dean wasn't fooled; he knew now that angels were just as trustworthy as humans or demons themselves. "I wanna see my brother." A demand.

"That's…ill-advised." came the thoughtful answer and behind it echoed the similar words spoken by the angel's subordinate, parrot-like, carefully rehearsed:_ "I don't think that's wise."_

Dean had had enough. _So you're playing around, huh? You wanna mess around with my head? Well screw you, 'cause I'm not your friggin toy!_ "You know," he bit out, caustic and unrelenting, not caring about the fact that the being in front of him had the power to turn him into a smear on the floor effortlessly. "I am so sick of your crap riddles, and your smug, fat face." His ire rose with each word, a bullet set loose from its chamber to ricochet around wildly. "What the hell is going on, huh? What can't I see Sam?! And how am I going to ice Lilith?"

Lips pursed, Zachariah sighed audibly, head going down then up. When the angel spoke, it was in a quieter tone, like he knew Dean couldn't be placated with half-assed answers or beer and hamburgers anymore. It had, after all, been at least five hours since the hunter had been transported here anyway. "You're not." The eyebrows went up, clearly seeking out the rest of the sentence. "…going to 'ice' Lilith."

"What?" Dumbfounded, Dean was sorely tempted to check that his ears weren't filled with wax because it'd just sounded like… _What the hell?_

"Lilith's going to break the final seal." Zachariah announced, turning and walking over to a gold thread-embossed couch. "Fate to complete, at this point." The portly man sat down with a slight chuckle. "Train's left the station."

"But me and Sam, we can stop-" His words faltered then as he took in the self-satisfied smirk stretching the extra folds of flesh on the other's face, as he took in the angel's tone of voice, his attitude. Zachariah had just spoken of the angels' defeat like a CEO making the semester budget report at those meetings where everyone present either daydreamed into oblivion or busied themselves with miscellaneous tasks on their laptop, their Blackberry. Like this wasn't a new piece of news, like… _like he'd known it all along. _The realization shot through him, cutting like a whip, and the words tumbled out numbly. "You don't want to stop it, do you?"

"Nope." A hand raised, a finger shook. "Never did." The hands went back to being crossed across the small potbelly, relaxed and at ease. Zachariah's smirk could've withered the Amazon. "The end is nigh, the apocalypse is coming, kiddo- to a theatre near you."

_Just like that._ An angel from Heaven had just announced screwing over the entire world and its six billion-some inhabitants without the least bit of regret. Dean was struck with an odd sense of déjà vu though, and his mind spun back to startlingly similar words that had been thrown boldly up into his face by a _demon_, no less: _"No need to sonny boy, it's comin' to a theme park near you, full of thrills for the whole family!" _His lips parted, dry and parched, eyes fixed disbelievingly on Zachariah's face. "What was all that crap about saving seals?" He had a feeling he knew though...

Zachariah shrugged carelessly. "Grunts on the ground, we couldn't just tell them the whole truth; we'd have a full-scale rebellion on our hands." Dean reached out for the table and grabbed the cool marble, fingers digging into the smooth surface in order not to sway on his feet. His breath came shallowly; his face was turned away because he couldn't bear staring that smug little grin a moment longer.

"But why?" A child's question, asked with childish desperation. _But why did Mommy die in the fire? Why do we have to move again? Why are you never home, Dad? Why did you lie?_

"Why not?" Cheerfully, Zachariah spread his hands out to the side, oblivious to Dean's distress at this staggering news. "The _apolcaypse._" The angel motioned in front of him, like he was displaying a sign or merely presenting a notion for a clever new slogan, a novel business idea. "Poor name, bad marketing, puts people off- when all it is, is Ali/Foreman. Ah…slightly larger scale."

Dean wasn't facing the other but he could just _hear_ the self-congratulatory sneer in the angel's tone. _No, no, no; this is wrong, this is bullshit-_ His eyes lifted despairingly from the floor and caught sight of the portraits covering the walls. "And we like our chances." The hunter turned slowly then, eyes taking in the scenes depicted so gloriously on the walls, _really_ seeing them, and the destruction and gore he saw, the death marked out by pigments and oils and brush made him sick to his stomach. "And when our side wins, and we WILL," Zachariah prattled on, "it's paradise on Earth." He sounded pleased, for God's sake, _pleased_. "What's not to like about that?"

_You've got to be shitting me._ Dean's throat was tight and he noticed that the room suddenly seemed dimmer than before, the once-tempting burgers and cold beers now far from his mind, the glory and splendor of the ostentatiously decorated room now revealed to be as comfortable and beautiful as the inside of a motel room.

Artificial. Fake. Lies.

Shock froze his voice in his throat and his eyes were incredulous at this unimaginable betrayal against him, against mankind, against everyone who'd sacrificed so much for this fixed fight whose outcome had already been decided. "What happens to all the people during your little pissing contest?" A sudden thought struck him and his eyes grew even wider- What then, about those 'grunts on the ground' who'd been likewise deceived- _What happened to Castiel? _

"Well…" Zachariah uncrossed his legs and stood up, shrugging the question off like water rolling off a duck's back. "Can't make an omelet without cracking a few eggs. In this case…" a wry grin appeared on his face. "Truckloads of eggs, but you get the picture." He buttoned his suit jacket again, formally, smiling that same damn smile that made Dean want nothing more than to stab him in the face because now the trick had been revealed, the joke was made clear- and it wasn't funny in the least.

"Even one of your own?" the hunter croaked, amazed that he was able to utter anything at all.

"You mean Castiel," the angel said thoughtfully. He rocked back on his heels for a moment, eyes drifting toward the ceiling, trying to think of a way to best phrase it. "Look- it happens." At the look on Dean's face, he chuckled lightly. "So, you saw it, did you?" If possible, Zachariah's smile grew wider. "Oh well, then you might as well see all of it, I guess."

"All of-" His vision went blinding white and then he was separating, coming apart at the seams and scattering in all directions, limb from limb, cell from cell, particle from particle-

"_Wilt thou obey? Give thyself wholly over to Heaven and swear thy allegiance- now."_

_Castiel was collapsed in a heap, head bowed so low that his forehead touched the ground, the highest are of the once-glorious being now cast down to the lowest position. Tattered wings drooped downwards in a vain attempt to shield the crumpled form from the eyes of those all around, like a child after a severe beating disguised as being 'taught a lesson'._

_Dean's teeth grit together tightly, so tight that it was a wonder they did not shatter. He did not want to see this again, he __**could**__ not watch it again, tearing his eyes away from Castiel's shuddering figure. His gaze landed somewhere else then, upon Zachariah's face- and though the features were too bright to discern, the hunter could sense the arrogance, the dominance, and the undeniable pleasure rolling off the superior angel in waves. _

_The superior angel lifted a hand then, and two others came down from the stands, coming up on either side of their brother, who had not said a word or made a sound. Dean inhaled sharply in confusion then, because the angels were placing both hands on the singed wings, repairing and healing both appendages. Castiel raised his head too, uncertainty and perplexity mingling in with the remnants of pain in his features and Dean winced, he __**winced**__ to see such emotion. _

_Zachariah said only one word then, but it was enough, that single syllabled utterance, to make Dean believe that he was no angel, that he was a fucking demon- "Again." _

_Castiel made no sound this time, but Dean could clearly see the angel's lips trembling as he pressed them together as not to make a sound, defying Zachariah in any way he could. But then came the cruel word once more: "Again." _

_Once more, the momentary relief that would not last, then the destruction. Dean's heart was in the pit of his stomach and he stood there, hollering at the top of his lungs for the bastard to stop, but he had no voice and the idiot sons of bitches standing around him were just watching, just watching the torture. _

"_Again." _

_The fourth time Zachariah disfigured his wings, Castiel screamed out again, the sound terrifying and heart-wrenching, yet it didn't stop. "Again." By the ninth time, the angel had lost his voice and the piteous cries had faded into silence. "Again." _

_Thirteen seemed to be the charm though. Zachariah paused, drawing himself up and letting his next demand thunder out loud. "WILL THOU OBEY?"_

_Castiel's reply was an answer, a barely audible breath of air, a plea- "Yes."_

His breath came ragged and in hard pants; his fingers were gripping onto the table for dear life and by some bizarre miracle, he'd managed to stay on his feet. Dean's head was turned to the side though, eyes fixed on a statuette of an angel playing a trumpet- _You fucking demon._ His fingers curled into fists-

"Uh, no." Zachariah's voice intoned, amused. "Dean, you probably shouldn't try to bash my skull in with that thing." The hunter redirected his gaze upon that ever-present smile, that damn smile that taunted and ragged and boasted, fingers itching. "Wouldn't end up too pleasant for you."

"You bastard." His voice was thick; trying to speak around the sudden lump in his throat was hard. "You _son of a bitch._"

The angel took one casual look at Dean and shrugged. "Don't worry, Dean. Castiel has learned his lesson; forget about him. You have larger concerns."

_Larger concerns. _He almost laughed aloud because that seemed to be the choice phrase for these dicks who called themselves angels, didn't it?

Zachariah continued. "We weren't lying about your destiny Dean, you're still vital." A frown drew bushy eyebrows together. "That's where Uriel went wrong; he wanted to off you and…" the angel tsk tsked. "We couldn't have that. You ARE chosen, and you _will_ stop it." A little grin started spreading across his face, as crooked as the angel himself. "Just not… Lilith or the apocalypse, that's all."

His mind whirled and Dean hated himself for it, but could feel the moisture pooling in his eyes. "What about Sam?" he blurted out. His pain in the ass baby brother. "He won't go quietly; he'll stop Lilith." The angel's lip curled then, in a way that terrified the hunter, shaking him down to his very core because this was Zachariah's expression every time before saying that fated word, _again._ "What're you going to do to him? What am I going to stop?" _I'm not going to hurt Sammy; I'll kill you myself if you dicks are going to make me hurt my brother-_

"Lucifer." Zachariah motioned upward with a flourish, and as Dean gazed in numb horror upon the portrait of the archangel and the devil, he heard bits and snatches of "Russell Crowe" and "peace, happiness"- but how the hell was this peace? He felt weak, and seriously about to empty whatever little contents his stomach contained all over the floor.

"Tell me," he croaked out, seeing but not seeing the back of Zachariah's balding head- "Where's God in all this?" Where was this supposedly merciful Father that Castiel put so much faith in, where was the Almighty God that Castiel fought for and carried out orders on account of? Where was the one who commanded his rescue from Hell? _Obviously not here._

"God?" Zachariah sounded bemused and Dean hated him all the more for it. "God has left the building."

_A/N: Whew, that was a bit longer than usual. Zachariah sure loves to listen to himself talk, doesn't he? And Sam, how far can he get without Ruby there to help him? We're almost at the climax now, hang in there! Please review!_


	10. Confrontation

_A/N: For everyone missing Belial and Gabriel (they have been MIA for a while, haven't they?), don't fret; they're coming back soon! Thank you for the gracious reviews and I hope all of you enjoy this chapter!_

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke_

The ever-sifting grains of the sands of time encompassed copious amounts of…everything, really. From Eden to the primitive civilizations of the ancient river valleys to the rise and fall of the Roman Empire; from the first spark of fire to the invention of the printing press and the subsequent rise of the Church- throughout the history of the world, the only conclusion to be drawn, the only lesson to be learned was uncomplicated and could be abridged and condensed into one concise claim: Man was a mindless fool, and woman was little better.

There was no legitimate reason why these worthless pieces of filth were God's chosen children, above both angels and demons. Man cheated and lied, stole and blasphemed, murdered and stabbed his brother in the back- but at the end of the day, he always went crawling back to the one who had kicked him out of Paradise in the first place, squalling like a toddler because he feared that his Daddy wouldn't love him anymore. Woman at least had half a brain, being willing to question the endless rules and regulations given- it was just a piece of damn fruit!- and as a result gained the knowledge of good and evil, whereas man would've been content to follow anything the Almighty decreed, blindly, stupidly.

Even after the fall, humans refused to enjoy themselves to their hearts' content here on the earth that was wonderfully abundant in every type of pleasure imaginable. Instead of realizing the potential of having broken free from the chains binding them to their tyrant of a Father, they built up a Church for the sole purpose of imprisoning themselves yet _again_, the simple-minded weaklings.

And yet if they were really so dense, then why was she sitting here, fuming silently over one such man's shocking actions that had stunned her into speechlessness?

"_I said, '__**no**__'. You'd better start running again, Lilith…'cause it's going to be game over soon when I end __**you**__."_

Her fingers tightened on the stem of the martini glass and she glowered into the darkness at nothing in particular._ That arrogant son of a bitch._ Lilith had by now replayed the scene in her mind countless times and yet the end result was the same, with the younger Winchester's face lined with anger and hatred to the utmost degree, the fire of fierce determination burning in his eyes as he rejected her generous offer.

_And here I thought that nobility in the face of horror was the Winchester way._ The demon violently stabbed at the olive in the stirred mixture of gin and vermouth. Oh right, she'd forgotten that the idiots advocated _self_-sacrifice, as opposed to putting anyone else in harm's way. _So he was more concerned about a damn angel than the lives of six billion humans? _The demon pulled a face. She _so_ should have brought up that point, just to see how Mr. Righteous Winchester would've responded then.

_Definitely idiots. _Once again Lilith found herself pleased with the choice she made so long ago, for having put such mediocrity behind her, of having surrendered to the fire and the ruin, to the flames of desire and all the deliciously sinful pleasures the flesh could sustain- the men, the thrill of everlasting festivity, and the baby blood- _oh, _the blood of newborns was the sweetest nectar imaginable. A slight frown creased her brow though and she brought the olive up to her mouth, well-shaped lips closing around the garnish, scarlet red against dull green. Of course she could've been enjoying a glass right now, still warm and freshly pumped right out of the aorta, but- _It was supposed to be the bitch, just her. But no, I turn up and the prick's gutted my nurse too- _

Lilith tried, and unsuccessfully at that, to squash down the fear that drew up a heavy coldness in the pit of her stomach and sourness in the back of her throat. Sam Winchester could make all the threats he wanted- she wasn't scared of the overgrown Sasquatch; he wasn't capable of doing shit without his whore, Ruby. No, it wasn't the thought of the young hunter that made her fingernails bite into her palms, but of the deal she'd made, the deal she now had no way of keeping.

"_I'll hand deliver your precious angel to you myself." _

A shudder passed through her meatsuit, swift and sudden as her thoughts turned to the superior demon, of what he was capable of doing to those who crossed him, who cheated him out of a deal. He of the deceptively pleasant voice that made women melt like chocolate in a warm hand and an accent of lilts and drawls, elongated vowels tumbling out of his mouth like a blessing and a curse; he with the streak of sadistic insanity that reduced even his kin to terrified wisps of smoke and piles of ash, all carefully reined in and disguised behind the charming smile of a suave gentleman

_Goddamn you,_ Lilith thought bitterly, then laughed at the irony of the spiteful notion, the half-empty martini glass tilting in her loose grasp. Pale blue eyes closed and anyone glancing over at that particular instant would have supposed that the comely blonde simply didn't know how to hold her drink, never venturing to guess that she was in fact a demon agonizing over her own very foolish mistake. "Goddamn it all to Hell." A whisper of quiet frustration, controlled desperation.

The clink of glass against glass rang out as something nudged the flute in her hand. "I'll drink to that."

She jerked away so fast, eyes flying wide open, that some of the drink sloshed over the side of the rim, birthing a dark wet patch on the tablecloth and the newcomer arched an eyebrow at the show of clumsiness. "What a greeting."

"Belial." The name was a hiss of discomfort, a glossed over shiver of apprehension, and yet Lilith could not stop from drinking in the sight of her fellow fallen brother, the familiar flames of desire swelling up between her hips, settling low in the pit of her belly. She leaned forward slightly, revealing more flesh than was socially acceptable and letting one foot slide scandalously up the inside of the other's leg. "I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon." _Too soon_, her mind intoned anxiously.

As usual, he failed to respond to her charms, merely taking a slow, measured sip of whatever dark crimson swirled around in the flute he held, jade green eyes of his new vessel watching her carefully and Lilith's mouth grew dry because hot _damn_, this meatsuit was something else.

For a moment her mind skipped back to that day eons ago, scrounging around in the dirt as a worthless human being and hating every moment of what seemed to be a prison of an existence when he arrived, more beautiful than anything she'd ever seen- the Light Bearer and the Morning Star, Lucifer himself. The first of the Fallen. It'd been so simple to say yes upon the promise of having her eyes opened, so easy to turn away from the God she never knew, to be taken in by this dazzling creature of glorious light and to be made into what he was-

She was Lucifer's first. It was a honor above all others, giving her status and dominance, authority and everything she could ever want- but upon seeing _him_, composed of flaming darkness as the roaring inferno grew all the more furious just by his presence- Lilith knew she had to have him.

Hell's second Prince.

Dark as Lucifer was light, nearly as strong and twice as tempting, Belial oozed raw sexuality and power, a combination which made every woman go mad with lust just for a taste of the honeyed words that dripped from his lips. No wonder he specialized in the areas of sexual perversion, fornication, and lust- the demon embodied the transgressions perfectly, a personification of the sins themselves.

"Impressive selection this time around," Lilith purred sensuously, referring to the other's new vessel and trying her best to cover up her uneasiness with a devilish smirk. "Maybe you'd consider giving this one a test drive?"

Belial's eyes were focused on something over her head, immune to the foot that nudged against his thigh. "Down, girl," he drawled out lazily. An iron grip clamped down around her bare ankle, cold fingers curling around her foot and the demon girl hissed sharply. "I doubt you know how to properly navigate your way around a stick."

The pressure was crushing the bones together, grinding the talus against the fibula and Lilith tried pulling back, because she _felt it_ and it was evident in her face. This was Belial's ire and a warning rolled into one, his threat without words. Her superior's eyes met hers then, ivory white and yet so dark and threatening at the same time she couldn't help it- she shivered visibly. "I've only come to collect what's mine."

_Of course._ She let out a bark of laughter, harsh with pain and shaky with uncertainty. "Oh come on, Belial, cut a girl some slack." It was meant to be wheedling, but came out as a plea. The grip tightened and she winced. _Fine, you bastard._ "…I don't have him just yet."

"Hm." Belial finally released her and Lilith shrank back in her chair, cursing the fact that she still had to walk out in three-inch heels. "Tell me something my dear," the other said silkily, white stare never drifting away, "what exactly did he use to tempt you?" Nimble fingers strayed towards the cutlery on the table and soon the knife was flipping back and forth across his knuckles, back and forth. "What luscious spoils did the Son of Perdition assure you waited on the other side; what valuable prize was stolen from you that Lucifer swore to repay in abundance?"

A simple question, with a less than simple reason behind it being asked. She wasn't human anymore, but Lilith could feel her meatsuit's skin grow cold, clammy. The smug bastard knew, everyone knew, but he was going to make her say it out loud. "My child."

"Ah, a cherished prize indeed. And now you can have all the infants you desire." The silver of the knife flashed in the candlelight, but was nothing compared to the ice in Belial's hard gaze. "Seems like your deal was seen through to the very end, no?" His eyes narrowed. "Now you've promised to restore to me something that has been taken away, something very precious and yet-" The demon spread his arms wide. "Here you sit, empty-handed." Belial smiled then, a malicious smile full of death. "You weren't _lying_ to me now, were you Lilith?"

Lilith would've found it hilarious if she hadn't been scared shitless. Honestly, out of all the fuck buddies in the world, Belial had to chase after one who had a damn _archangel_ as an overprotective older brother and was assigned to watch over the supposed savior of mankind. _Talk about tacky taste._ "I said I would get him for you," she said slowly, "and I _will_. Soon."

"Make 'soon' tomorrow night." The knife's blade tore through the tablecloth and sank four inches into the wood underneath to punctuate the words. "St. Mary's Convent." Belial grinned at the irony of his own demand. "For old time's sake." He stood, straightening his suit, high amused as he watched Lilith doing a marvelous impression of a goldfish. "Don't make me wait, my dear."

Turning smoothly, he sauntered out of the smoky bar, passing through the crowd without brushing against anyone; the demon's steps were quick, almost jaunty, the grin on his face sliding into a smirk. If she thought she could pull one over on him, then surely he would let her think that- _right up until the moment I bring Sam Winchester around to finish you off, sister._

If little Lilith wanted to play with fire, then Belial would make sure that he brought the marshmallows to toast as she burned.

* * *

The glamorously painted scenes of destruction and the end of days on the wall were creeping him out. Not with the sort of eerie yet stunning presence exuded by the Mona Lisa's ever-following eyes, or the majestic quality of Gustave Dore's illustrations. No, the only vibe Dean was getting from these ghastly images of the impending future that Heaven let happen was that familiar sickly feeling that made his stomach lurch and produced a fine sheen of cold sweat on his forehead.

He was also getting slightly past feeling like his entire world had been turned upside down and shaken helter skelter and into what would've been categorized as _seething_- immeasurably angry, and yet too proud to call out for help or to even admit that he'd been duped by the ones he'd thought were supposed to be the good guys in the fight.

"_We weren't lying about your destiny Dean, you're still vital._"

The hunter's eyes traveled over the portrait his gaze kept wandering back toward, the triumphant angel ramming some type of spear into the ugly creature it stood above. _Yeah? Well you dicks can stuff it and hightail to Hell, all of you, 'cause I'm not gonna be your hammer._ Dean's jaw clenched tightly and he turned away, fixing his glare on the treacherous walls that wouldn't give way to the force of his fists or vexation or outright rage, trapping him here like a rat in a maze; a test subject for the angels to prod at and fatten up with burgers and beer until they needed him for their own purposes.

_Greenroom, my ass. _He glowered at his surroundings. This wasn't some comfy lounge; it was the goddamn Shawshank with a fat prick of an angel who smiled too much to replace Bob Gunton's spectacled villain as the warden. _I'm not waiting around to drop the soap or to be turned into Heaven's bitch._ Fishing in his pocket he pulled out his cell phone, telling that annoying little voice in the back of his mind that was gleefully exclaiming _your one phone call! _to shut the hell up, Dean flipped the communication device open and pushed speed dial one.

_**Sammy**_ the display read and he brought it up to his ear, hoping against all hope that he would hear his brother's voice coming on the other end and somehow, with the combined forces of Winchester blood, sweat, grit and mulish determination that they would get down to the bottom of this mess just like they used to, together. Maybe even getting the other's voicemail would suffice, then he'd be able to leave a message to warn Sam about the angels' own private little atomic bombs-

Nothing but static and white noise answered his earnest efforts and Dean pulled the phone away from his ear, looking down at it in something akin to despair. _Oh no, don't you quit on me too you little piece of- _A sharp bark of laughter lanced through his chest and tumbled from his lips painfully as the hunter registered the ridiculousness of the entire situation, of him standing there and mentally hurling insults at an inanimate object. Maybe he really had lost it, or was spiraling in some sort of Twilight Zone-esque alternate universe. _Wouldn't be the first time._

"You can't reach him, Dean. You're outside of your coverage zone."

Another burst of hilarity swelled up but Dean let it die in the cavern of his chest. Yep, he'd definitely lost it if the angel had just cracked a joke. Castiel, badass hammer of the Lord; Cas who sat on a park bench and let spill the secret of his doubts because he just needed someone to _listen_ indiscriminately; Cas who fought and bled for him; Castiel who had lied to his face; Cas, an absolute freakin' mess of smoking feathers and burnt wings and _shame_.

The same bubble of mirth had turned into shards of bitterness, of memory, and the elder Winchester swallowed hard, snapping his phone shut. _Castiel, the dick who won't let me see Sam._ "What're you gonna do to Sam?"

He walked forward, noting how Dean's shoulders were hunched up near his ears, the muscles tight with tension and stiffly rounded like a defensive shield; hard and suspicious and unyielding, screaming out volumes of mistrust without the hunter having to do so much as speak. But the elder Winchester _had_ spoken, and in a voice full of a carefully controlled maelstrom of emotions. "Nothing," Castiel sighed, not in relief or exasperation, but in full knowledge nothing he said would placate Dean now. Instead of placing a comforting hand on the other's back as he had done once before, the angel veered off at an angle, stopping a mere handful of paces away. "He's going to do it to himself."

Dean turned to face him, all skepticism and for a moment, Castiel saw the hurting soul behind the omnipresent exterior, the shield of self-manufactured protection- "What's that supposed to mean?"-and his gaze faltered, falling to the ground.

"Oh right, right." Dean's voice was low and soft with apparent sincerity, the wrinkle forming between his brows betraying his mockery. "Gotta toe the company line." The hunter walked forward slowly, remembering a time when it had been the angel invading his personal space, getting right up close and uttering a threat that had the power to not only silence him, but had made Dean Winchester understand what having the fear of God put into him felt like. Or…fear of an angel. _Whatever._ Now the tables had been turned and as blue eyes slowly slid upwards to meet his own, Dean wondered vaguely if this was what he'd looked like nearly a year ago, standing in the darkness of Bobby's kitchen- like someone had just turned his puppy into roadkill. "Why're you here, Cas?"

For once, there were no sardonic comments or skyward rolling of the eyes; the hunter's outer defense of jokes and his customary cheapening of all things difficult or painful had been stripped away, leaving only man and angel. Except that didn't even matter anymore either, that they were two different species, that one bore the mark of the other or that the other had existed since the birthing of the cosmos; it was just Dean and Castiel here and now, and the moment was so honest, so open, so real that it was _raw._

"We've been through much together, you and I. And I just wanted…" The words came quiet and soft; the angel's tone was contrite, his manner hesitant and unsure. _Scared._ Frightened of how Dean would or wouldn't react, of desertion, of hate. "…to say I'm sorry it ended like this."

His eyebrows arched on their own accord in grimly cynical humor as he repeated the word aloud. "'Sorry'?" Castiel's head tilted slightly and Dean gave a tiny, disbelieving shake of his head at how friggin ignorant this supposedly powerful and intelligent celestial being was, to believe that this mess could be fixed with a simple word of apology. _Well aren't you just a peach?_ It was nearly comical in a sense, like a child who'd chopped off a hunk of his hair while playing barbershop and was now trying to affix the fallen strands back to his scalp with duct tape, funny in a really sad, pathetic way.

_Great_. _So now this is me saying "it's all good", mudmonkey style._ With a scoff of derision, Dean reared back and drove his fist forward with all the strength he could muster, to forcefully knock some sense into that borrowed skull-

THUNK.

He'd obviously seen the fist coming because one, Castiel wasn't really as poor of a fighter as everyone suspected and two, despite Dean's prowess as a very capable hunter, the elder Winchester was still only human. It would have been false to suggest that the angel hadn't been expecting the swing either, but that didn't mean that it _hurt_ any less. When the knuckles made contact with his vessel's cheek with enough force to turn his head to the side, for lack of knowing how to react otherwise Castiel went…blank.

_Oh, Jesus CHRIST on a bicycle!!_ Dean turned around slowly, jaw clenched tight to hold in the yowl of pain threatening to escape his throat as his hand throbbed dully. So apparently trying to bash in an angel's skull wasn't such a good idea, not if one wanted to retain the use of his hand. But how was he supposed to know that it would feel like taking a swing at a freakin' terminator? It's not like 'holy tax accountant' was synonymous with 'Arnold Schwarzenegger'. _Ow, ow, ow._ Dean allowed himself a rough gasp as he flexed his fingers, trying to rid his knuckles of the feeling of smashing into a marble column. "It's Armageddon, Cas," he spat out, voice breaking slightly on the angel's name, the only one in whom he dared to place his trust, the one who'd played him like a fiddle just like all the others. "You need a bigger word than '_sorry'_!"

Here it came, in a wave of tsunami-like proportions, the boiling hot rush of emotions spilling over their thresholds at the hunter's tone, still as strange and foreign as the first time he'd ever _felt._ Castiel could feel his forehead creasing and his hands rose to motion emphatically. "Try to understand," he beseeched in a voice filled with the frustration he was trying to tamper down- and unsuccessfully at that because no matter what wide store of wisdom the angel bore, one thing he didn't know how to do was how make Dean see that all of this was for his own good. "This is long foretold." _This is the will of Heaven, it's an order from above!_ "This is your-"

"Destiny?" Dean broke in, interrupting the fervent claim. He paused, wordlessly begging the angel to understand, pleading with his eyes, necessarily uncouth because the Castiel he once knew inspired enough faith within him to _try_. "Destiny, God's plan? It's all a bunch of LIES, you poor stupid son of a bitch!" Despair colored his voice. "It's just a way for your bosses to keep me, and keep _you_ in line!" He jabbed the air fiercely.

But they were both stupid sons of bitches, weren't they and as he pointed first at himself and at the other, he realized that it was true. He, being foolish enough to believe that angels would be any different than any other supernatural creature he'd hunted down and Castiel… Dean felt a faint surge of hope at the expression on the other's face because he could see the angel's blind faith withering; Castiel's jaw was tightening in a strangely humanlike gesture of discomfort. _Just listen to me, Cas. Please._

But it was clear that Castiel didn't want to hear this; he didn't want to face what was being thrown in his face again and those impossibly blue orbs that used to be so filled with conviction narrowing, striving to control _something_ within, doing his best to justify anything, everything. Dean swore silently because Castiel recognized the truth, saw it the way the bruised and battered child saw that mommies and daddies were supposed to hug and love, not hit and scream- goddamn it, he _knew_ that the angel knew!

"You know what's real?" God, he hadn't sounded like this since asking Castiel not to make him unleash the monster that lurked within his soul upon Alastair; he was practically begging. "_People._ Families. _That's_ real." _Sam's quirky grin, kicking back in a diner with his brother and a piece of pie, sitting on a park bench and just watching the kids run back and forth without a care in the world, as it should be and seeing an angel smile, bright as the sun itself-_ Dean's hands curled into shaking fists. "And you're going to watch them all burn?!"

What had happened to the angel who once spoke of his Father's creations as works of art with mingled admiration and wistfulness? But the memory of the stench of burning feathers made his nostrils flare and Dean knew why.

"What is so worth saving?" Castiel's voice was rough, raw with the effort needed continue holding his ground against his charge as he stepped closer because this struggle was pure physics- the angel's once solid and unwavering faith slamming into Dean's relentless uprooting of all that he'd ever known since the dawn of time.

"I see nothing but _pain_ here!" It was so close to a snarl and would've been if not for the undisguised hurt behind the words, the wounded accusation of one who'd felt such pain and had learned it through betrayal, through an unpleasant crash-course. "I see inside you," Castiel whispered, eyes boring into the hazel-green ones of this man who'd with his words and his actions shaken the very foundations of his entire existence. "I see your guilt, your anger; confusion…"

And it tore at _him_, a soldier of the Lord who used to do naught but fight; seeing the endless pain now tore at him. Castiel's soul ached for the hunter who looked like he had aged ten years in the past one and who now bore the weight of mankind's survival upon his already-slumped shoulders. _Listen to me, Dean. You can stop running and you will never have need to fear again_. "In paradise, all is forgiven."

"_For what it's worth… I would give anything not to have you do this." _

Now, he would give anything to have Dean play out his role, to let the Apocalypse come and Lucifer rise. Perhaps it was a selfish wish but Castiel wanted for his charge to find the peace he never had in thirty years on earth and forty in Hell, to be guiltless and be made whole again. It was his reason for all of this, for going through the pain and the humiliation, the agony and the fire- for Dean's sake. "You'll be at peace…" the angel whispered fervently through chapped lips. His fingers curled in toward the palms slightly and his wrists gave a slight twinge, new skin still tender where it was stretched over the wounds there. "Even with Sam."

"_Cast thine eyes down upon man again. What dost thou see that is worth saving?"_ Gabriel's words sounded out in his mind and Castiel dropped his gaze down to the side, staring at the ground. _"There was naught but pain. In the halls of our Father, all is forgiven; there wilt be peace for all." _

Something failed; falling as swiftly and as tragically brilliant as the death of a star because the angel knew this wasn't what his charge wanted. It would never be what Dean Winchester wanted no matter what reasoning or words of persuasion were offered. Just as, despite his brother's words of wisdom and reassurance, Castiel had never wished for mankind to be destroyed by the Great Flood, still holding onto the belief that such calamity could have been avoided. Still holding onto _hope_.

_Where are you now, brother?_ Castiel could feel his vessel's pulse jump and quicken at the thought and had he been made in the image of the Almighty, he would've claimed that his heart shuddered in fear for Gabriel, of what had happened to the archangel. A thought struck him then, sudden and poignant- how was it possible for he and his brothers to be reconciled after all that had happened? A great many of the Heavenly host had already fallen in battle and now-

Hazel green eyes moved into his line of sight, interrupting the angel's rather scattered thought process and held his, dragging the gaze upright. "You can take your peace," Dean started, tight-lipped and hard-eyed, "and shove it up your lily white ass."

Castiel's eyes narrowed but not disapproval at the other's profanity or blatant lack of respect, but in confusion. He spoke every language that was, ever had been, and ever would be in existence, and yet the angel stared at his charge in utter confusion, mind repeating one numb word over and over: _Why? _

"'Cause I'll take the pain, and the guilt." Dean's words were tight with strain and the words came out in a growl reminiscent of a fiercely protective predator marking his territory; his eyes shone with determination and unshed moisture. "I'll even take Sam _as is._" This was a man forsaking his own wellbeing the six billion others he didn't know and would probably never even meet, this was a Winchester defying the will of the cosmos to do what he knew to be right. This was an older sibling loving his younger brother despite all the odds and crappy circumstances, despite it all and Castiel's expression was a mixture of pain and fear because he knew that Dean would do all he'd just claimed. Looking away from his charge, he opened his mouth-

"It's a lot better than being some Stepford _bitch_ in Paradise!" The hunter's voice was raised and Castiel could feel the heat of a livid glare burning into the side of his head. "Is that what they did to you up there, demonstrate the meaning of _peace_?! Must be a hell of a concept to wrap your head around, what with them having to show you thirteen times, huh?" The angel's head snapped back toward Dean, his eyes went wide and his mouth closed; he didn't know what to say because there was nothing _to_ say.

If Dean had been looking for the freshest wound in which to make fresh-squeezed lemonade, he'd found it.

"This is simple, Cas!" He pressed on as the angel turned his back on him. "No more crap about being a good soldier. There's a right and there's a wrong here, and you know it." Dean stared at the unwrinkled beige of the trench coat for a second before his ire flared and he reached out, grabbing Castiel's shoulder, fingers digging deep and hard enough to make an imprint of their own. "Look at me!"

Had someone told Dean Winchester a year ago that he would be for lack of better words manhandling an angel, he would have kindly directed said person to the nearest mental hospital. Or conducted an on the spot exorcism. After all, whose handprint was branded onto whose arm? But here he was, forcefully turning Castiel back around to face him because the angel was about to run away as those dicks with wings so often did, and he wouldn't allow it. "You _know_ it!"

Comfort was foreign to this hardened soldier and displaying kindness or concern for an angel was even weirder. He wasn't raised to be a counselor or psychiatrist and certainly not a damn priest and so Dean knew he was being an ass, but this was the only way. He was pushing and pushing the angel because something in those blue eyes that held his told him there was a chance, that despite all the blood and guts and gore strewn along the beach at Normandy that victory would be on the horizon of the red dawn, that there was still even the smallest flame of hope. They were both victims here but while he was trying to fight, it seemed like Castiel had just given up already, too willing to lie down with the white flag and letting everyone from demons to his bastard superiors walk all over him like a freakin' doormat. _C'mon Cas. Don't you make me give up on you too. _

"And you were going to help me once, weren't you?" It was a desperate whisper and Castiel's gaze tore away instantly, like a dog's leash being jerked violently to the side but he wasn't denying it. "You were going to warn me about all this before they dragged you back to Bible camp!" He hissed the words like a secret, knowing that the walls here probably had walls or Zachariah was probably playing the part of peeping Tom. "Help me, now. _Please_!"

Castiel's face was lined with pain, whether physical or mental, Dean didn't know. The angel wouldn't meet his eyes and his voice was tight, question clipped and halting. "What would you have me do?"

"Get me to Sam!" The answer was ready and prepared, shot out like a fully loaded spring. "We can stop this before it's too late!"

_But you don't know, Dean, you __**don't know**__!_ There was no breath to draw into his vessel's lungs and Castiel recognized this feeling all too well, that which made his hands shake uncontrollably and sparked phantom twinges and stabbings racing across his back, drawing up the memory of his superior's snide taunt: _Or perhaps you would fancy a visit to our mutual fallen friend?_ "I do that, and we will all be hunted." He was practically vibrating with it because he knew the consequences of disobeying; the memories were far too fresh, the pain far too real- "We'll _all_ be killed."

Fear.

And Dean in all his ignorance of the wrath of Heaven stood proud and tall, forehead creased as he made his last plea, his last entreaty. "If there is anything worth dying for…" The words passed unspoken. _People. Freedom. Life. Sam._ "…this is it."

Gazing into his charge's hopeful, imploring face the angel wanted to say yes, he wanted to grant the hunter this one request even if he were to suffer for it, he wanted to _disobey_- but his head shook, slowly and painfully because he _couldn't_. Castiel's eyes drifted downwards shamefully because he was terrified, because he had not even an ounce of Dean's reckless but admirable courage, because at this moment he hated himself for letting Dean down, but he simply just _couldn't._

The fires of the damned could not have burned with fiercer flame than the anger in Dean's voice. "You spineless," came the words, spat out syllable by syllable and dripping with disgust so thick that it was palpable, "_soulless_ son of a bitch." The words tore into him, sharper than any blade and he couldn't bear looking at Dean, fixing his eyes instead on the wall. "What do you care about dying, the Cas I thought I knew is already dead- we're done."

That was it. One sentence, and everything was unraveling, coming apart at the seams and everything he knew was coming undone. "Dean," Castiel whispered softly, pleadingly, filled with all the regret and sorrow in the world as his charge turned his back on him, as the angel felt himself being unmade. _Please-_

"We're _done_."

Dean's voice broke on the last word, but it was spoken with a note of such finality that Castiel's throat worked to hold in the rush of overwhelming emotion; his lips twitched and he pressed them tightly together against everything, pulling back all of the hurt and despair to harness it inside, trying to hold still. Standing here felt like a crime though, after the deception and the betrayal and the disappointment of the letdown-

He turned back at the slightest beating of wings, cold front having melted, disappeared as the angel had and Dean's brows pulled toward each other. This heaviness gathering in his chest, this despair, the hot tears pricking at the corners of his eyes-

_Damn it, Cas.

* * *

_

_The screams of the condemned always rang out across the barren wasteland with never a moment's pause or respite, demons cackled merrily as they tormented the naked, torn souls, and onward sang the ghastly symphony of damnation, the powerful heartbeat of the Pit. _

_And yet there was another sound, louder than all the rest of the noise; large white wings beat furiously against the smoke and the flame, beautiful iridescence against the horrific backdrop of the stuff of nightmares as the angel of the Lord ascended up through the levels of Hell, rising up through the dungeons of depravity and despair faster than mortal eyes could trace. Sapphire blue eyes were trained up toward the heavens although all that met his gaze was a thick haze of black smoke, brilliance of color in a sea of darkness. _

_The soul in his grasp was limp and heavy, hindering his movements. Fire licked at his form and demons approached; slithering on bellies, crawling on all fours or flying toward him and the angel held out a hand, opening his mouth: "IN NOMINEE DEI PATRIS OMNIPOTENTIS" rolled forth like a clap of thunder and the demons shrieked out in gaggles of their putrid tongues, falling away._

_Those that were stronger of their kind came to replace them, for great would be the way an angel was captured and imprisoned in the Pit! They closed in on the lone celestial being, their combined power dimming the angel's glorious light and sapping his strength. His grip began to slip for the weight of the affliction upon the man's soul was too heavy, dragging him downwards into the clutches of the Fallen and there were so many of them, swarming all around and waiting for the best moment to strike, and to take down their prisoners. _

_Castiel fervently tightened his grasp, wings straining as a plea to the Father issued from his mouth and as if in answer, light poured in from above as the mouth of the Pit opened up, its wall having fallen in the siege. The demons hissed and spat, cowering away from the glory of all the Heavenly host. Eyes trained on his brothers and still bearing the burden of the heavy soul, Castiel soared out of Hell, his faith pulsing in his grace like the purest fire, sanctified flame. _

_There were voices all around him now, voices murmuring in a tongue he knew, alternating between loud and soft, soothing and adamant. Hands were trying to separate him from his charge but then his surroundings were swirling hellfire and black smoke, shrill screams and so he held fast to the soul that was meant to be the one who would save mankind. God commanded this rescue, and Castiel would perish defending this soul if it was necessary. _

"_Enough of this foolishness!"__Sounded out a voice above all others and then someone was moving closer menacingly, with a dangerous air. "Give him to me."_

_He would __**not**__ release Dean Winchester, no matter how the filthy servants of the Pit tried to take him back- Drawing himself up with what strength Hell had not managed to drain from his form Castiel abruptly unfurled his wings to shelter the torn soul, knocking away the approaching form. _

"_Fool!" Zachariah spat, one hand raised to strike the lesser angel when a voice heralded by a thousand trumpets roared out in unmistakable fury. _

"_**STAY THY HAND!"**_

_All stepped back as the Lord's messenger moved toward their weary and wounded younger brother, he who had been the first to dive heedlessly into the darkest depths of the Pit to find and fight for the soul he now still defended as he stood here amongst his brothers, covered with soot and ash and the remnants of Hell. Gently, Gabriel settled his hands on Castiel's shoulders and although the other flinched upon initial contact, the eyes that were raised were, if only for a moment, clear. "Unburden thyself, my brother. Allow Raphael to cleanse this soul." _

_Slowly, Castiel unclenched his fingers from around the soul and allowed Dean to be taken away and when he no longer had the strength to stand, his brother caught him and lowered him gently to the ground, one hand already pressing firmly against his chest. "Fear not, Castiel. The siege has ended and thou hast successfully extricated Dean Winchester from the grasp of the Fallen."_

_The words were ones of comfort and praise, but he shuddered, remembering the wickedness that had been clawing at his soul, threatening to dirty his grace. "His soul was so heavy," Castiel confessed, eyes large and haunted. "My strength was fading; I nearly dropped him back into their clutches-"_

"_Thou did no such thing," Gabriel said soothingly, passing a hand over his younger brother's singed and tattered wing, evidence of the fires of Hell. "No-" _

"_But I would have!" Castiel interrupted, sharp and terrified at his own words. "His weight was more than his own transgressions, more than the afflictions of the Pit and the burden was nearly overwhelming." He drew in a deep, shuddering breath. "I knew the orders from the Throne but I felt if I held onto him any longer that I too would fall into eternal destruction and I, now, must burden you with my own injuries- forgive me brother," he gasped, disgusted at himself and desperate. "I was too afraid; I am still too weak-"_

_The words were cut off as Gabriel wrapped strong arms tightly around the other, the archangel's light surrounding the lesser angel's battered form, healing all wounds and driving away the horrors of the memories of the realm below. An embrace of security, of comfort, a blessing. _

"_Peace, my brother," the archangel murmured. "Even if that man dragged ye both down into the eternal Lake of Fire, thou would not have released him. The mark of thy hand was upon his soul. That is not weakness, Castiel." Gabriel said firmly, having his brother's eyes meet his own. "Thou lovest even the unclean man's soul with the love of our Father, and that is the greatest strength that could ever reside within thy spirit." _

"_Zachariah says-" began Castiel, so very much like a child and the other cut him off, gently. _

"_Zachariah understands not thy purity and it is for such a reason that Dean Winchester is now thy charge." _

_The lesser angel bowed his head in great reverence and gratitude, but weariness soon overtook him and he heard Gabriel chuckle, a sound like a fine evening shower during the springtime. "Rest now." A palm was laid against his forehead and gone was the pain. _

"_I almost perished for his soul," Castiel murmured absently, without quite knowing the reason why. Quietly then, so quietly that it was nearly inaudible, came Gabriel's whisper._

"_As I would for thine, my brother." _

Castiel watched Dean as he strode back and forth, counting the hunter's steps as he had when his charge had first been transported here. Instead of confliction and confusion though, he now felt peace and great resolution.

The angel nodded once, for he understood. And just as his brother cared for him, Castiel would protect and defend Dean Winchester as fervently as he'd done the moments after pulling him out of Hell. Even if it meant enduring the pain and torture, the agony and shame; even if it meant perishing for his soul, Castiel would do so, and gladly- because there were some things- and even more importantly- some people worth dying for.

* * *

_What the-_ Dean had no idea what was happening when fingers were digging into his shoulder, grabbing him firmly and slamming his back up against the wall hard, so hard that he saw stars for a second. His mouth opened wider from when it'd already been partially opened to bite down into the burger that was now flung halfway across the room, deconstructed and making an odd smear in the otherwise spotless, type A obsessive orderly room- but then there was a hand pressing against his mouth, cutting off his startled cry and then he was staring into deep blue eyes that were once again piercing with certainty and resolve, strength and wisdom beyond mortal comprehension. These eyes were holding his, burrowing past the hazel green mirrors and never mind the knife in the angel's hand, this was _Cas_, and he was asking Dean for but one thing…

So the elder Winchester nodded yes, because he understood. _I trust you._ Castiel nodded back slightly, a near-missed movement of his head and Dean could see the gratitude when the angel released him, allowing him to breathe because damn, did getting slammed into a solid wall by an angel _hurt_.

He didn't have time to dwell on the aching of his back and shoulders though, because Castiel was- Castiel was cutting himself. _And they say the way to go is down the lane, not across the street, emo kid_- Brushing away the inappropriate thought as this really wasn't the time or place, Dean stared slack-jawed as Castiel sliced open his forearm and started using his own blood as friggin _fingerpaint_ or something, and the wall as a canvas.

Circle, circle, weird looking upside-down rune- _wait._ He knew those symbols; he'd seen them before. Anna had used something like this once, to wish Castiel and Uriel back to the cornfield back when they'd come around looking for her and that meant… _Holy hell on a popsicle stick; Castiel's banishing-_

"Castiel..."

Hunter and angel looked up, one in terrified alarm and the other in more or less speechless shock as Zachariah appeared, smirking. "I'm afraid such behavior is inappropriate in the office," he said smarmily and with that, he held out a hand, sending Dean and Castiel hurtling through the air to different corners of the room.

_A/N: Goodness gracious, I am utterly exhausted. I think this is my single longest chapter yet… hope all of you enjoyed this long awaited scene! As a warning in advance, get your tissues ready for the next chapter but until then, please review!_


	11. Compassion

_A/N: Seriously? You guys are so incredibly thoughtful and committed; I'm amazed with how many of you have been so wonderful as to stick with me and this story. We're almost at the end, so hang tight and enjoy! _

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke_

For many infants, their first form of entertainment was being swung up into the air by strong, capable hands; the air fanning their chubby cheeks and eliciting bursts of laughter, innocent and beautiful. As children grew older, excitement came in the form of being able to soar high above the clouds upon large metal wings, of being able to throw one's hands up, fingers stretching to touch the sky when at the highest point of a roller coaster. Even grown men and women relished in the rush of adrenaline, in the thrill of skydiving or bungee jumping, of being able to defy gravity for once, to _fly_-

But as much as others loved the sensation, Dean hated it.

In fact he didn't just hate flying- he _despised_ the action, abhorred it with every single fiber of his being, loathed the whole feeling of eerie weightlessness while spinning head over heels even more than witches, poltergeists, demons, and everything else that went bump in the night- _combined_- and for good reason too. Growing up with the childhood he had (or didn't have) and with a man like the infamous John Winchester as a father, Dean had learned from a young age that not having his feet firmly planted on the ground meant something was very wrong.

And it wasn't just flying either, Dean realized, but he's always had trouble trusting anything that _could _fly. Airplanes (what kind of person with half a brain wanted to go up ten thousand feet into the air in an airtight vessel, breathing in recycled air anyways?), Superman (Batman was totally cooler), the freakin' tooth fairy (he really was going to hunt that little bitch down- you know, after the whole Apocalypse deal and all), angels-

Abruptly it all came back to him like flashes of images from a recurring nightmare as he did one last cartwheel in the air and then came to a literal crashing halt, cheek making a lovely acquaintance with the cold floor, lips an inch away from kissing the ground. Castiel's blue eyes boring into his and wordlessly asking for trust, something so rarely offered and even rarer to be received; the flash of steel against welling crimson, watching Castiel finger-painting half of a sigil on the wall before suddenly becoming airborne; Zachariah's hulking figure advancing upon Castiel as the lesser angel got to his feet-

Dean blinked. _No wait, that's right now._ Sorely he peeled his face away from the floor and tried to push himself up, but his body obviously wasn't on the same page as the rest of him and his limbs flopped uselessly like a boneless fish.

"My, my, your foolishness seems to know no bounds. I thought you would have learned your lesson by now." He was sitting here on the sidelines at the opposite end of a room that for some reason seemed ten times the length of a football field and yet he could hear Zachariah's voice way over in the end zone, disgustingly honeyed and artificially cordial, mocking.

Castiel's response was flat, words spoken with grim determination. "Then you thought incorrectly."

The lights in the room were flickering, the chandelier that hung above the table shook perilously and Dean's mouth grew dry as the two angels stood facing each other, the air almost fizzling with electric tension. It was like a scene out of an old Western, a standoff between with the sheriff and the outlaw, the ones in which everyone rooted for the scruffy, scowling underdog with the lean silhouette and bright blue eyes squinting against all the unjust law being impressed upon the innocent townspeople, who he had the look of both the hunter and the hunted. They cheered for him even though he would most likely go out in a glorious hail of bullets because he was willing to stand up to the higher ups, because they understood how far he'd come to stand here in this moment, or in this case because it was just the _right_ thing to do.

Even at this distance Dean could see the hard set to Castiel's jaw, the steely resolve in the angel's features as the silence as broken by the _plip plip plip_ of blood running down his forearm to fall against the floor then came Zachariah's voice again, this time soft and deadly. "You always have been rather slow on the uptake, _brother_."

Then the guns were drawn and sparks flew but instead of the smoke and flame it was now a freakin' duel from Star Wars or something, with both angels raising their hands in simultaneous defense and offense, pushing with invisible force. His own hands raised defensively against the power that was growing stronger and stronger, Dean caught a glimpse of the familiar trench coat billowing outwards as if its wearer was trying to stand his ground in the eye of a hurricane and Castiel's feet were sliding backwards inch by inch as the uncontestable might of the universe expanded, uncontainable inside the enclosed space-

_Oh, shit!_ With a grumbled curse, Dean flattened himself against the ground again as random objects started hurtling themselves around the room, the hunter part of him reciting the information tucked away in his brain about poltergeists and the other half of him concentrating on resembling a pancake as the statuette he'd been considering slamming into Zachariah's skull rocketed into the wall right above his head and showered him in debris, as hamburgers whizzed across the room like weird little alien saucers of white bun meshed with cheese and beef patty, as bottles of beer cracked open to loose their fizzy liquid contents all over the floor. _CHRIST on a cracker, make it stop­!_

Apparently the Man upstairs decided to listen to him for once even though he'd supposedly left the building for the next moment, the whirlwind within the room vanished and Dean held himself stiffly, semi-afraid to check for broken bones or if he was even able to lift his head. Shifting slightly out from under broken frames and pieces of fallen mortar, the hunter lifted his head to see Zachariah standing above Castiel who was bent over with one hand pressed against his side. The lesser angel's face tightened in a grimace of pain as he pulled what seemed like a shard of a splintered two-by-four from his side; Dean's stomach lurched and he managed to make it to his hands and knees when Zachariah's large hand fell upon Castiel's shoulder and-

-and Castiel punched his superior across the face.

Dean's mouth fell open and his mind stuttered incoherently. _Uh…I- Cas- the what?_ He gaped wordlessly because Castiel hadn't just merely punched Zachariah, it had been a whole rearing back with fist cocked over his shoulder and then driving it forward, slugging with enough force to make the other angel stumble backwards with a imprint of knuckles on his fleshy face type of punch, the kind that films showed with a great crescendo of music and in slow motion.

Maybe it was the shock of feeling pain for the first time in his borrowed meatsuit or maybe it was because he'd just figured out the hard way that Castiel had one _hell_ of a right hook (_or maybe it's Maybelline_ Dean's mind sang stupidly and he told it in no unclear terms to shut the hell up_)_ but for whatever reason, Zachariah faltered with all the light-footedness of a rhinoceros attempting the last act of Swan Lake and Castiel delivered another staggering blow, this time an uppercut worthy of Rocky Balboa himself.

No, not quite Rocky. Castiel always fought with fluid grace and precision, exerting no more strength than necessary and with a type of collected calm that was nearly as unnerving as his unfathomable gaze. It was the same phenomenal power he'd seen the angel exemplify against Alastair, but that wasn't the reason Dean was staring like a slack jawed idiot or why his brain was refusing to string together more than two words in order to form a comprehensible sentence. There was a vigor in his movements now that the hunter had never seen before and that was why Dean sat there in awestruck silence; it was the _I'm gonna mess you up_ fire in Castiel's blue gaze that sparked sapphire and the fact that…

Dean blinked. This was surer than carrying out an order, clearer than purpose, more fervent than mere defense- it was _anger_. Not because of his dispassionate disregard for anything and everything the angel believed in, not at him for being thick skulled, but _for _him. For his sake, an angel was turning his back on everything he'd even known, everything he'd ever believed in so to protect him, and Dean blinked again because his mind refused to wrap itself around the fact that Castiel was angry on his behalf.

The third strike came as swiftly as the previous two and sent Zachariah careening into the adjacent wall; Castiel turned and raised fingers dripping with his own blood to mark out a triangle above the nearly-completed sigil-

"You've just earned yourself three demerits, Castiel."

It was as if someone or something had reached down and snagged the back of Castiel's trench coat, jerking the angel clean off the floor until he was suspended in midair, feet kicking at least five feet off the ground. Zachariah had righted himself and was walking slowly toward his subordinate, one hand raised to keep the lesser angel in place, the other prodding gingerly at his jaw, looking oddly pleased for someone who'd just been on the receiving end of a fist. "That usually means a strike out in any office, doesn't it?"

Dean's own jaw clicked shut and he lunged to his feet but bounced back like he'd just hit an invisible wall; he wanted to yell but all powers of speech failed him because the look of startled dismay on Castiel's face made it perfectly clear that they were now bent over and royally _screwed_.

"_Unus_."

The Latin word sliced through the air as a hot knife did to cold butter and Dean rocketed backwards against the wall yet again as brightness flooded the room, each and every particle occupying and laying claim to its own space, squeezing all the oxygen out of the room and ripping the very breath from the hunter's lungs. The room was swimming around him in rays and shards of light that seemed to be slamming into him so hard it felt like his bones were shattering to dust and the only stupid thought that crossed his mind fleetingly was if this was what it felt like to in a Vulcan mind meld or something because he swore his freakin' _brain_ was leaking out of his ears-

"_Duo_."

Dean's head snapped up then because he could practically _hear_ Zachariah's smirk as the bastard spoke the word and squinting against what felt like a tornado, hurricane and heat wave rolled into one, the hunter's eyes caught Castiel still suspended in the air as if hung up on some invisible hook, head thrown back and cords in his neck tightening as his blue orbs gazed upwards unseeingly, huge and wide with desperation. The angel's fingers were flexing frantically in the air, fighting against some unseen force and as Dean stared; slowly, slowly it came into sight.

Castiel's left wing- or its shadow, actually, straining and unfurling reluctantly but it wasn't being unfurled at all, for Zachariah was amping up his freaky angel mojo and more or less _dragging_ it out of wherever Castiel had been hiding the giant appendage in his holy tax accountant suit in the first place. Dean's heart jammed itself halfway between his tonsils and his teeth because he knew what was going to happen next then and the worst part was that he was literally powerless to do anything to prevent it.

"_Tres._" The stubby fingers of Zachariah's upraised hand curled in slightly to resemble a claw and then the prick was meticulously raking his fingers down through the air, drawling out the last word like it had ten syllables with that same infuriating little smirk that made it obvious he was _enjoying_ every last second of this shit.

"_CAS!!!!_" Dean hollered, the angel's name a warning, a protest, and a note of despair all rolled into one but it was lost to audition. Three long slashes of light appeared against the darkness of the shadow of the exposed wing, stretching jaggedly downwards as Zachariah's fingers dragged in the same direction and then there came the noise that shattered glass and burst the blood vessels in Dean's ears because it wasn't just noise; it was the sound of an angel's voice, it was a cry of agony, it was Castiel _screaming_, screaming as he fell to the floor in a graceless heap, screaming as the world exploded in a million flutters of bloodstained white down.

* * *

If anyone were to ask Hell's second prince when he first knew, the answer would be straightforward, simple, and surprisingly honest- even for him, he who knew how to lie like it was his native tongue, who had practically _taught_ human beings how to do so. Perhaps the reason for that was because the answer in and of itself was fairly uncomplicated. The first time Belial knew he wanted something for his own was when he locked eyes with a younger angel, when orbs bluer than the oceans or the skies trapped him in a gaze that was so deep and endless that it stole away all breath and reason and comprehensible thought, replacing it with a lust so wild and driven burning slow and terribly sweet, the thorns of a rose lashing incessantly in the deepest part of him. Driving him mad.

And so Belial had said yes when Lucifer came to him. He had been one of the most powerful of the seraphim, raw strength and power coiled into this heat that was seared now and forever into his innermost being in place of the grace he'd ripped out himself, said yes not because he hated God or human beings, but yes because it meant that he could lay claim to this brother. So he could strip away all the goodness and purity that this naïve little brother practically _shone_ with, so he could rip away the innocence and just drown in the salty tears from those impossibly blue eyes.

_Mine._

But of course there'd been the unexpected turn of events, what with Michael somehow managing to best Lucifer, getting cast out of Heaven and Gabriel being such a nosy, priggish ass. A nosy priggish ass who would have also made for rather pleasant entertainment if the archangel didn't have such a knack for flaunting the fact that he had extra grace or faith or whatever it was that always gave him the upper hand whenever they met. Maybe it was that little bit about him sitting at the Lord's left hand and being His personal messenger.

What was really infuriating though, was how Gabriel always, _always_ overreacted whenever Belial got even remotely close to one certain favored little brother, circumstances that always ended with the demon finding himself back in Hell and nursing several painful bumps and bruises. Honestly, all Belial wanted was some quality time alone with dear little Cas so he could fuck him stupid. That wasn't really all _that_ terrible, was it?

The demon chuckled to himself as he recalled the look of utter stupefaction upon the archangel's face when Gabriel discovered just how much he'd been missing during his vacation down on Earth- the wide, blinking eyes that would have been reminiscent of a sleepy cow if not for the beginnings of anger in their depths, the pathetic 'say it isn't so' expression, and when the loudmouth had actually been speechless. _Entertainment, indeed._ And just how would the old sport react if and most likely when he found out what had been done to his precious little brother when he'd been dragged back up to Heaven?

_Wouldn't that be a sight to behold?_ Belial laughed aloud, the sound echoing in the emptiness of St. Mary's Convent for the evening was young and for the first time in a while, life was _good_. Sam Winchester was less than seventy miles away, pushing the accelerator to the floor and as filled to the brim with blood and vengeance and vicious intent as horny teenage boys were filled with testosterone. Lilith was still running around like a headless chicken, trying to collect favors that wouldn't pay because no one knew where the blue-eyed angel seemed to be and while that look of petrified _oh shit I'm fucked_ type of fear was ravishing when present upon Castiel's face, when Lilith donned the same expression, it was just funny as hell.

Who had he to thank for such good fortune? God? Belial scoffed, rolling Thomas Hartley's jade green eyes skywards derisively. Sure, then he would magically sprout wings again and the Almighty would welcome him back into Paradise with open arms. Lucifer, then?

Well, first the arrogant prick had to rise. _I'll thank you then, brother- when I finally receive that which you promised to me long ago.

* * *

_

"You just won't give up, will you, brother?"

It was like a scene from a bad movie, the point in which the villain stood triumphantly over the beaten hero, letting out a sinister, evil laugh or spouting off some god-awful clichéd monologue about how nothing could stop him now, about how the world was his, and blah blah blah. Of course everyone who'd ever seen anything produced by Hollywood knew what would happen next, how the hero would miraculously climb to his feet, battered and bruised but not defeated as he then proceeded to beat the ever-loving shit out of his adversary.

Except this wasn't a movie that could be turned off; there was no way to change the channel and Castiel wasn't rising out of the ashes to smite his superior's ass, he was trying to move to his hands and knees slowly, obviously with great difficulty but trying to get back up despite the insurmountable odds, to fight. Refusing to give up. Zachariah stood over him with a bemused look on his face, shaking his head with a sigh as if the other angel was a hopeless case. "You'll never learn when to just quit."

Casually, but with obvious strength and cruelty Zachariah kicked the lesser angel square in the ribs, making Castiel's arms buckle dangerously and then he was gasping for breath so hard that Dean's chest constricted painfully. Even though he very clearly knew that reality was nothing like the movies, this was a film reel flashing before his eyes, with the annoying CG effects of feathers cascading down everywhere like snow, complete with the cheesy slow motion-

"HR has been notified of your disobedience, Castiel." Zachariah's fat face was stretching wide into the same infuriating smile that made the elder Winchester want to bury a knife in his chest and then he was lifting a foot like he was attempting some weird type of yoga stance… "Consider _this_-" the black penny loafer moved over the beige of the trench coat-

_**CRACK**_.

"-a notification of the termination of your employment."

_JESUS, Mary and- _Before he knew what he was doing, broken glass and pieces of scattered debris were digging into his palms and through the knees of his jeans as Dean scrambled to his feet, lurching forward as Zachariah's heavy foot stomped down hard on his subordinate's exposed back and the unmistakable sound of snapping bones struck the air, as Castiel's arms gave out the same way one would knock out the poles that were the only things holding up the blanket of a circus tent and the angel collapsed heavily, silently, limply. Like a rag doll.

This time though, Castiel stayed down. And that was just _wrong_.

As his mind finally caught up with the rest of his body, Dean was sure that he'd somehow broken the space-time continuum because one moment he was on the opposite side of the room watching Zachariah bringing his foot down like freakin' Godzilla or something and the next he was hitting his knees beside Castiel's still form; Castiel's bloody, beaten form.

"You've been through much together, isn't that right?" Came the mocking inquiry from up above, a taunt of Castiel's previous sincerity and Dean glared upwards, jaw clenched tight and his mouth set in a thin, tight line. "Just the two of you?" Zachariah sneered, looking like a rat. A huge, ugly rat that the hunter would've liked nothing better than to string up by his ears and pump full of rock salt. "I'll give you a chance to say goodbye, for…_sentimental_ reasons."

Zachariah was gone then, seeming to have evaporated into thin air but Dean didn't give a flying fuck where the bastard had disappeared to; his eyes were fixed on the bloody tatters of the back of Castiel's trench coat as he bent over the angel's prone vessel, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and hands hovering hesitantly because the image chose to surface suddenly at the worst of times: his vision was starring and he was gazing upon the field of torn flesh and white bone, more blood and hamburger meat than muscle and skin-

_Shit, shit, shit,_ his mind kept repeating like a chant, a useless mantra but it gave his brain at least something to process because as soon as he banished the horrific memory of the aftermath of Castiel getting his ribs ripped from his spine, Dean was utterly clueless as to what he was supposed to _do_. Although he'd sewn himself up plenty of times (and had the scars to show for it), he was first and foremost a hunter, not a nurse; more adept at snuffing life out than sustaining it. And now here he was, with lead weighing down his stomach and glue making the sides of his lungs stick together, preventing respiration but as Dean was only human he had to breathe; the exhale was a small puff of air shaped in the form of the angel's name- a bare whisper.

"Cas?"

There was no response and although Dean could clearly see that there was no gaping wounds spanning the smooth plane of Castiel's back, it seemed like all he could focus on was how very _still_ the angel was. The stubbled cheek was pressed against the marble floor and with the dark hair mussed over his forehead and the utter blankness upon his features, it would've looked like he was asleep- if not for the blood, if not for the awkward position he lay in, with hands spread on either side of his head, palms up and fingers curled slightly inward, still fixed in the position of struggling against whatever had been closing in on him. Still fighting.

The thought sent a jolt through him and Dean felt the heaviness in the pit of his stomach dropping even deeper into his gut. "Castiel?" He reached out with one hand tentatively, fingers nearly brushing the beige fabric where a faint imprint left behind by Zachariah's shoe could be seen and the hunter had to squash down a bark of hysterical laughter because it'd always seemed like there was something dirty about that snake in the grass and look, here was the proof right here-

-when Castiel's hand shot out swifter than mortal comprehension, palm slamming against his bicep and fingers digging deeper into flesh than could be considered comfortable and Dean wasn't laughing now because he felt like the angel was trying to burn another handprint onto him, right over the original one too, and that sure as hell wasn't funny in the least. And neither was the sound Castiel made next, an awful guttural moan, inhaling sharply with a stuttered sound that could have been mistake for hiccups if not for the gasps of pain; there was nothing even _slightly _humorous about how the angel seemed barely able to lift his head or shoulders more than a few inches above the ground, but it was the look in Castiel's eyes that made Dean's entire body turn to ice.

Panic. Pain. _Fear._

This wasn't right. Angels of the Lord weren't supposed to be afraid of anything. They could bend time, burn people's eyes out of their skull, and deafen without realization, not to mention burning demons into nonexistence. The elder Winchester had found out the hard way that angels weren't halos and beautiful voices or naked little cherubic beings (although it was definitely a benefit to never have seen Uriel in such a form; Dean rather liked being able to see, thank you very much); they were fierce warriors and Castiel was as badass of a soldier as they came and Dean had the angel's freakin' _burnt on _handprint to prove it. It felt wrong to see such a powerful being reduced to this state.

But as the fear started to bleed out of huge sapphire orbs, everything jumped from being right or wrong, north or south, yes or no into a whole different dimension altogether and Dean Winchester _freaked out._ He forgot about Sam then, forgot himself, even forgot about the goddamn apocalypse and Lucifer, about Hell rising- all he knew in his instant was that he had to help the angel, but he didn't have the slightest idea as to _how_.

Castiel was beginning to speak now- or more like choke- in a language he'd never heard before because it otherworldly in a sense, ethereal words amid strangled gasps. It took him a moment to realize that it was a strange blend of languages, bits of Latin and Italian, Aramaic and Greek and amongst the strangely beautiful babble, Dean was able to pick out words he understood- "_brother_" and "_forgiveness_" and "_no, no,_ _**no**_". It wasn't until he heard his own name flying from the angel's chapped lips that he was goaded into action, slinging one slack arm around his neck and not so much hefting as gently lifting the other up off the ground, as careful as if he was cradling a newborn, murmuring soothing nonsense as he used to do so long ago when he sat up with a feverish Sam throughout the night. Only now the name he whispered over and over was Castiel's as he more or less dragged the semi-unconscious angel over to the wall, trying to be as gentle as possible.

"Cas? Hey Cas, stay with me, man. Stay with me." The voice was one he knew, but it came from faraway, the sound penetrating through walls and water, through earth and sky and the pain. Something lifting his arm and Castiel fought against it as the action made tendrils of flame race across his entire frame, trying to clamp down the hideous agony, thousands upon thousand nerves screaming out their protest and joining their voices with his desperate prayer. _Merciful Father, please spare me such torment; I am faithful, I am not defiant or disobedient; brother Gabriel protect me for I am weak-_ Wave after wave of fire that was neither heated nor icy rolled over and down his back, unrelenting and dark, stripping a moan of discomfort from his parched throat.

"Easy, easy," the voice murmured right next to his ear and somewhere through the blanket of agony Castiel felt a spark of surprise at the comfort he heard in the hunter's voice, such empathy that had never before been directed at or intended for him. "Come on, I'm right here. It's alright." The thought struck the angel at his core, an assurance that which he'd never doubted but now felt with conviction beyond faith- _Dean Winchester is a righteous man._

The cloudiness in Castiel's eyes was dissipating and as the angel's grip loosened just a bit Dean felt a slight surge of crazy hope that maybe what he was saying wasn't just for Castiel's sake (or for his own, just to have something else sounding out in his ears besides the other's frightening gasps of pain), that everything really was going to be alright. That whatever Zachariah had done to make the lesser angel crumple to the ground like a house of cards wasn't permanent. _We'll make it through this mess. Hang on. I'm here. It's gonna be alright._

Until he tried sitting the slumped angel down to lean against the wall, because it was then that everything went straight to Hell. Not in a hand basket, not passing GO and collecting two hundred dollars, not just to the upper crust of the Pit where the hellhounds bayed. Without warning or notice, the shit hit the fan.

Castiel's back arched like someone had just ripped his spine out of his body, hand falling away from Dean's bicep. His eyes were rolling as if in excruciating pain and an odd, terrible strangled cry flew from his mouth, a scream trying to escape but lacking the breath necessary to do so. Limply, the angel fell forward into Dean, arms hanging uselessly down at his sides and sagging lifelessly against the stronger frame, head lolling heavily against the hunter's shoulder.

Numbly, all Dean could do was spread his arms open to catch him, chin coming over the angel's left shoulder, trying to adjust to the sudden dead weight and his eyes widened, his mouth opened and he made a strange croaking sound, reminiscent of a frog. _Holy fucking shit._

The giant appendage was literally breathtaking, extending out from Castiel's back and was without a doubt, the most surreal thing Dean had ever seen in his life. As if having his eyes opened, Dean saw the three jagged slashes, the source of the crimson that seeped from the wounds and was soaking into the knees of his jeans. All three lacerations ran long and deep, tearing cruelly through countless nerves and tendons, ripping out the feathers that were still drifting down around both man and angel like bloodstained snow and the wing itself drooped uselessly, dragging down along the floor, the connective joint between shoulder blade and appendage having been crushed; evidence of the damage Zachariah had so indifferently inflicted, knowing exactly what kind of damage he was doing when he stepped down upon his subordinate's back.

Yet even in its mutilated state it was powerful and majestic, iridescent, proof that the being kneeling here slumped in his arms was more than just a man and Dean gaped wordlessly at its beauty in that brief instant that seemed to last a lifetime, macabre and terrible, yet entrancing all the same.

The wing was gone in the blink of an eye, Castiel's angel mojo somehow apparently regaining control over concealing his true form, making the hunter snap back to reality. _Son of a bitch._ Dean hissed, inhaling sharply at his stupidity and feeling like the biggest jerk in the world because he'd actually tried getting Castiel to lean his weight against the freakin' wall.

Suddenly Castiel jerked, a harsh, abrupt movement that was like a drowned person desperately coming up for air and then he was stuttering out words haltingly, uncontrollable tremors wracking his body as the words tumbled out like water gushing in a never-ending stream from a pipe under too much pressure: "I will obey, I-serve-Heaven-not-man-I-serve-Heaven, please, I will obey, I WILL OBEY, _please_!"

Being a Winchester, Dean had a long history of experiencing the weird and unimaginable, from gigantic teddy bears come to life to nearly being eaten alive by hillbillies. But even he would have never _dreamed_ of this, of what it would be like to hear the voice that had once demanded respect, once been so filled with resounding power now small and aching, breathless and broken- so very much like a helpless child's repeating a mindless ultimatum (_just how many times did they make him repeat it?_)- reminding him with every rattling gasp, every moan of agony that shot straight to his heart that angels could get hurt and telling him that right this moment Castiel hurt in ways neither describable nor comprehensible to the human mind.

"Cas…Cas, it's- calm down, just breathe with me-"

It seemed like the angel was focusing on anything but breathing, his fingers scrabbling desperately at the marble floor for something to hold onto and Dean did the only thing he could, grabbing the angel's hand and letting the shaking digits clench tightly around his, letting Castiel squeeze the hell out of it and who cared that the grip was cutting off his circulation? The angel's frame was shaking like a leaf in his arms and Castiel's forehead was pressing into his shoulder, holding onto him as if Dean was an anchor to life. And below the worry and mounting panic he was trying to repress, Dean realized what he was feeling: rage.

He was pissed at the God who didn't care enough to look after one who called him Father, he who was perhaps the most faithful out of the entire bunch; he was infuriated that the supposedly holy servants of a God who was supposed to be ever-loving and always merciful had done this to Castiel, forced their brother into this condition, confused, afraid, in agony and forsaken with none but a lowly mudmonkey to care for him- Cas, who only ever gave and gave _all_ of himself, who loved and loved with blind faith and unwavering dedication to his father- and what was the reward for his steadfast loyalty and devotion? Crumpled here in a heap, weak and helpless as his own bloodstained feathers drifted settled down around him and the ungrateful bastard of a charge he'd defied Heaven and Hell for.

Dean swallowed hard. Yes, he was angry at all of those self-righteous dicks and evil bastards who hid behind the guise of righteousness and God's will and all of that other holy crap but most of all, he was angry at himself. He who had knowingly played upon Castiel's doubts for his own purposes, taken the angel's trust and used it to his own end, pushed and pushed and _pushed_ because Castiel cared for him too much to say no and Dean _knew_ it.

_Damn it, Cas. Damn you and your undying loyalty._ Dean swallowed hard, then realized with a chill that the angel was no longer twitching and the heavy, labored breaths that had been puffing irregularly against his neck were gone, replaced by breathing that was alarmingly shallow and he looked down to see Castiel's eyes pinched tightly shut, eyes moving rapidly under their lids and a fine sheen of sweat covering his brow. "Don't you dare die on me Cas, you son of a bitch!" It was meant to be a demand, sounded like a plea, and the reply was a halting whisper issued from parched lips, burrowing to the deepest part of Dean Winchester's soul.

"Dean…this is worth…dying for…"

As quiet as it was, Castiel's broken declaration was filled with so much conviction that it was actually sort of frightening, like the way the angel had once stared Dean straight in the eye and quietly insisted, _have faith_. And this was what hurt like a bitch, the fact that an angel was placing such implicit trust in him, having faith in _him. _It felt like being cut open by a dull knife. _Who the hell am I to deserve this?_

"Isn't that so noble?"

Castiel stiffened, Dean's head snapped up although there was no reason why he needed to do so. Right now, even with tears nearly swelling in his eyes, he could see the round belly and shit-eating grin that reminded him so much of a Cheshire cat…Zachariah was back.

* * *

The ground squelched underneath his boot as he stepped out of the car, jaw tight and stomach curdling with something that wasn't quite anticipation and wasn't quite fear. Immediately, the stench of sulfur assailed his senses, making his nostrils flare; the demon blood within him roared, thrumming through his veins and with each passing second, it felt more and more vital to his purpose, his intent, his very existence.

Sam drew in a deep breath, facing the stone structure which bore behind its walls the end, the key to stopping all this madness, to stopping the onset of the Apocalypse. Deep in the darkest chambers of this convent, a demon would die tonight and thus would mankind be saved from the greatest of all fallen angels, from grief, disaster, and despair. It was all up to him now.

"_Yeah? What would you wish for?" _

"_Lilith's head on a plate. Bloody." _

The memory came back so clearly, so strongly and so bitterly nostalgic that the younger Winchester could almost see his brother standing in front of the wishing well, could almost hear Dean's voice asking goading him in that joking manner to disguise the anxiety and curiosity beneath. He'd continued pressing, lightly but still going on about what he thought to be his younger brother's heart's desire- being a big time yuppie lawyer, having a big shiny car, a house with a white picket fence. Never becoming a hunter. Being normal.

But Dean was wrong, Sam thought, for once older brothers weren't always right because that time, Dean had been _dead wrong._ He didn't want any of that; he was a hunter and there was no escaping it because it was in his veins, and in their mother's before them. It was who he was and somehow, deep down inside, Sam knew that even if, by some miracle, such a past dream had indeed been accomplished, he still would have never been happy.

There was something else in his veins though, something foul and unclean, but _powerful_ and as much as it emboldened him, it frightened him too. He hadn't forgotten Pamela's last words; they ate away at his resolve like acid, the warning she fought to give him with her dying breath- _I know what's inside you, and it's evil. You may think what you're doing is good, but it's not._

He had lied. He'd told Dean that Pamela's last words had been to remark how great of an ass he had, he'd lied to Dean about drinking the demon blood to grow stronger, and he'd lied about what he wanted more than anything else in the world, because it wasn't Lilith's bloody head on a plate. No, because that would insinuate decapitating the innocent woman the demon would be possessing, and that just wasn't fair.

Now that he thought about it though, Dean had been…half right. Sam swallowed hard. He did want to go back to the beginning, back before when it all started. Back before Dean had been literally dragged down into Hell for his sake, before demons and angels started popping up all over the place like spastic light bulbs on a freakin' Christmas tree, before the slow countdown toward the Apocalypse. Back to when all the Winchester boys had to worry about was how to wrestle a Wendigo to the ground and which bar would result in the most money after a night of hustling pool, when they would call each other 'jerk' and 'bitch'; back when Dean was still a surefire cocky son of a gun, unafraid of anything and stronger than all the evil that they hunted down together. Just the two of them, the Winchester boys. The Winchester _brothers_.

_That_ was what Sam Winchester wanted more than anything else in the world. And as his footsteps pounded out on the overgrown path leading to the convent's front door, Sam knew _that_ was what he was intending on reclaiming from the bitch who ripped it all out from under his feet in the first place.

Lilith was going to pay.

* * *

"What the **hell** do you want, you fucking Nazi?!?" Dean snarled, tears gone as quickly as they'd been threatening to come, one arm immediately lifting to curl protectively around the angel he held.

Zachariah raised an eyebrow at the action, standing up off the sofa he'd been occupying and moving closer. "You sure you want to be touching such tainted merchandise, Dean? You don't know where it's been…" he smirked, a definite bite to his words, "or who it's been with."

Dean didn't understand the hidden meaning behind the sly and even somewhat suggestive tone, but clearly Castiel did because the angel's body went into a freakin' _spasm_, hand falling away from Dean's as he struggled desperately against the hunter's touch with a noise of fear that sounded perilously like a whimper, breathing ragged and erratic. Dean could practically _feel_ the angel's heart trying to beat its way _out_ of his chest and it was all he could do to put a comforting hand to the uninjured side of Castiel's back, silently willing, hoping, _praying_ that it would do at least some good. _Come on, Cas. You're stronger than this; I know you are. Don't you give in to this son of a bitch now._

Zachariah chuckled then, and had he not been supporting Castiel, Dean would've leapt up off the floor in one reckless, wild bound and smashed his fist into that smug face, broken hand be damned. "Just look at him," the superior angel sighed condescendingly. "What a mess." He shook his shoe free of a few feathers that stuck to the bottom, sticky with blood and turned his attention to Dean who was currently trying to burn a hole into his balding head with furious, blazing emerald eyes. "This is the cost of disobedience, boy, and a lesson for you."

"So you decide to turn into Kathy Bates and go all 'Misery' on Cas?!" Castiel seemed to have gotten the telepathic message and had gone still, chest still heaving unevenly as he trembled quietly, unnerved by his superior's proximity and Dean's anger augmented. _If this was supposed to be a goddamn lesson for me, then why the hell didn't you go all heavenly wrath on __**my**__ ass, you friggin psycho?_ What, was it because he didn't have wings for the fat bastard to shred into feathery confetti?

"Castiel…well, he's outlived what little usefulness he had." He stared, mind going completely blank at the cold callousness of the remark, and Zachariah shrugged nonchalantly. "Times are tough now. We're merely downsizing- you know, cutting costs and minimizing losses, doing away with liabilities."

"'Liabilities'?" Dean repeated slowly, the word tasting sour in his mouth. Gently, he maneuvered Castiel so that the angel was leaning against the wall on his uninjured side, then got to his feet, the front of his jeans and shirt stained a dark copper from the angel's blood, facing this prick who he couldn't believe came from Heaven. _Don't do it, don't think about slamming his head into the wall until his teeth rattle around in his skull; you've got to get a hold of yourself. Do it for Cas._

Zachariah laughed, the type of artificial and informal laugh rattled off by politicians at conventions when dodging a touchy subject. "Honestly, did you really think that we could ever use _that_?" He nodded at Castiel, who mercifully seemed to be unconscious. "Areas of worth have always been limited for him. Too sympathetic, too many weakness, not-"

"-not enough of a dick?" Dean broke in heatedly. Something was coiling in his gut as Zachariah prattled on, referring to his subordinate as a mere object of no worth. It was winding up tighter and tighter dangerously, just waiting for the right moment tospring forth, unleashing the wrath of one pissed off Winchester.

"Not strong enough to be a proper soldier," the other finished. "One of God's rare mistakes."

Dean's face flamed hot with anger. _You prick, Cas is the only one out of all you sons of bitches who could claim being even remotely close to what an __**angel**__ is supposed to be!_ The hunter held himself stiffly as Zachariah sauntered closer, still yapping away.

"Look, this is no time to be sensitive. It's a nasty, dog-eat-dog place, the office is. All we're doing is letting some go, and promoting others." The angel clapped a reassuring hand on Dean's shoulder.

_Get your frickin paws off of me._

"Come, Dean. Just let the garbage lay where it's fallen." Zachariah said jovially, and that's just about when Dean _snapped_.

He didn't think, couldn't think, wasn't _capable_ of thinking and the whole psychology thing about someone's motor nerves hijacking their brain and reasoning, making them do something so far beyond the definition of 'stupid' that there were no words to describe it? Yeah. This was such a moment perfectly personified.

Twisting sideways, the hunter grabbed the first thing his fingers closed around (a harp out of all things, an honest to God friggin _harp_) and swung it with everything he had within him- all his guilt over what had happened to Castiel, all his fear of what was to come, all his rage toward both Heaven and Hell for taking away everything that _ever _mattered to him- in a crushing blow to Zachariah's skull. _Keep on smiling now, you SON OF A BITCH!_

_A/N: I'm sorry if this chapter wasn't quite up to par; real life is driving me crazy. I hope all of you enjoyed Dean (and Castiel!) getting the chance to smash Zachariah's face in though- and just let me say that I hate that character with such a fiery passion right now that it's slightly disturbing. The next chapter will be the final one, featuring everyone (yes, Gabriel's coming back too). Until then, please review!_


	12. Counsel

_A/N: I'm __**SO**__ sorry for the late update but I'm sure that all everyone cares about is the chapter in and of itself. Thank you for your reviews and patience; I promise to __**never**__ take that long of a hiatus again! Enjoy! _

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke_

He was a soldier, a weapon of Heaven created for the glory of the Almighty and in being such, he was formed of consecrated might, the purest power; a creature of infinite beauty and splendor made by the wondrous majesty of the hands of the Creator of all. He destroyed entire civilizations and placed others up upon solid foundations, battled the forces from below and fought alongside his brothers and sisters, fighting as the word from above directed, carrying out orders with fierce resolution for he was a son of sanctified flame; an angel of the Lord- an instrument for His will and His wrath.

On the far other end of the spectrum and in comparison, human beings were flawed and substandard. Having long fallen short of the glory of God and turned to the passions of the flesh, the sons of clay were weak, forgetting all that their Heavenly Father had done for them and submitting easily to their own sinful appetites. However, although man's memory was like a sieve, his heart was more than an organ for pumping blood. It was a deep well of experience, of emotions- pain, pride, sorrow, anger, confusion, loss. But if one happened to gaze beyond the veil of shame and past the grime and foulness of iniquity that every human wore, one would see that his soul was a pool of joy and love and yearning for something more.

Too often, it was surmised by everyone (including the angels themselves) that fighting battles and pushing on toward the bloody dawn of victory was all that the servants of the Most High stood for, all that they knew, all that they _should_ know. How was this true when their Father was a God of never-ending mercy, abundant grace and endless blessing? Shouldn't His angels be of the same kindness and exude the same tenderness and infinite love that man was capable of?

Shouldn't they too, be able to feel?

Peace in Paradise was indeed harmony and balance; there had been no need for lies and deception there in the telling- but as Castiel contemplated the existence through a clearer lens, he saw the icy lifelessness, the cold perfection and it tore at him because spiteful words spoken in a sharp burst of anger from what seemed like ages ago rang out clear and truer than ever before: _"You're some heartless sons of bitches, you know that?"_

And what had Heaven's soldier replied? _"As a matter of fact, we are."_

Then the hunter had glared at him with such disgust, such outrage that spoke volumes louder than the expression of hurt betrayal upon the younger Winchester's face at having discovered that angels weren't fully-winged guardians of world peace and harmony and puppy love, louder than the majestic voice of the Lord's messenger himself. Those hazel green eyes had burned with incredible ferocity, announcing without words that everything Heaven was, the supposed savior of mankind _wasn't_.

Dean Winchester was the antithesis of what a champion of the Kingdom of Light was expected to be: he was insolent and hard-headed, bearing the temperament of a willfully disobedient child and lacked faith to such an extent that Castiel had been quite disturbed upon first speaking with his charge. Even more so, the hunter was less than righteous; he was nothing like Castiel's own vessel (although Jimmy Novak's devoutness was truly a wonder in times such as these), choosing instead to drink and blaspheme and fornicate like nobody's business. A year ago, Castiel would have hesitated to interact with such a lost soul, but now the angel didn't care.

As the arm moved up to wrap around his back, taut with tension and as fingers calloused by years of wielding shotguns and silver knives curved around his vessel's fragile, shaking frame in a gentle grip, Castiel _knew_. His Father had created the world out of its natural sense of disorder and chaos, had used a stuttering murderer to be His voice in the harsh sands of Egypt and made a lowly shepherd boy into Israel's most reputable ruler of old. God had even sent his only Son down to be crucified for the sins of this dark and ugly world and the seemingly worthless people inhabiting it- and it seemed like for the first time, Castiel really understood why.

But more than that, he _felt_ it.

Surely, Uriel would have laughed at him in his current state, at having to be held by a so-called "filthy monkey", having to be protected by the one Castiel himself had been charged to protect and while the thought of the other angel's treachery still stung deep, the tears tracking down his face were not ones of shame or even pain, but because of the strange feeling of peace settling over his soul. Castiel understood the meaning of the embrace he found himself in, for it was as clear as the one his own brother had pulled him into many millennia ago.

"Don't you dare die on me Cas, you son of a bitch!" Dean's voice cut through the haziness surrounding his mind and past the harsh words, the angel heard it: protection. Comfort. _Care_.

He gasped wordlessly then, because even though pain was enveloping his entire being, had he the voice and breath to do so, Castiel would have been rejoicing. There was no need for doubt any longer; never again would he resign himself to following orders blindly, even if for the sake of his very existence. He stuttered out his allegiance, his vow, that which now was the truest word to believe in for the strong heart that beat steadily inside the chest his head lay limply against would never quit, had never faltered even after thirty years on Earth and forty below and so neither would he.

_This is worth dying for._

Surely this man was of no great faith and had never composed psalms to the Lord or brought down a giant with sling and stone, but even the majestic King David couldn't hold a candle to Dean Winchester.

So now as he knelt here in this one, fleeting moment that felt like forever, the angel could feel the flames of Hellfire licking at the edges of his wings, but he made his decision. Castiel no longer believed in the restoration of Eden and of marbled perfection; rather he would choose to place his faith, his trust, his very _soul_ into the calloused and roughly worn hands of this damaged, imperfect hunter who offered a remarkable depth of compassion that was such as Castiel had never known before, he whose soul was fiery passion and fierceness, and the most realistic reflection of the Almighty's love- because while it was free, it was by no means all light and beauty.

With the last vestiges of his strength, Castiel willed his vessel's shaking limbs into motion and gripped the golden trim with weak fingers, more or less dragging his heavy frame upwards despite the field of flames that licked at his back, at his broken wing, at his battered soul. _Father, give me strength. _He blinked; once, twice, and the crimson sigil dripping down against the pristine white of the background came into focus. _Father, give me strength_. It played over and over in his weary mind, like a mantra, a litany- as Castiel lifted a trembling hand, as he slammed his palm solidly against the wall, as he made his irrevocable choice and felt the familiar pulsation of energy as Zachariah vanished from the room with something like a cross between a yelp of surprise and howl of protest.

_Father, give me strength._

"Cas!"

His knees buckled but Castiel turned at the familiar moniker, that which bore frightening implications and chilling memories when coming from any other, but seemed the only natural address coming from the one who bore his mark, permanently branded into his skin. White sparks flashed across his vision and the angel reached out with one hand, fingers scraping against the empty air, reaching out as he once did in the darkest depths of the Pit. Searching blindly through the pain and the agony for relief, for the flaming purity of Dean's soul.

The hunter grabbed the other's forearm, muscles still singing from swinging the heavy harp like a baseball bat, letting Castiel lean his weight against him and the angel's other hand came up, bloody, finding where it always seemed to land against his upper arm. For a brief, stupid instant a frown crossed the elder Winchester's brow because give a guy a break, everyone knew how hard it was to get bloodstains out of freakin' leather but then as the fingers clenched inwards, marking him once again as Castiel had already done so once before, it was as if the hand was touching more than just fabric, searching deep through skin and flesh and bone to scorch his very soul.

"_Dean_."

The whisper came and it was an uncertain note that tore at Dean's heart, a sigh of relief and a prayer all rolled into a barely audible exhalation, and then he wasn't thinking of anything else- not the satisfying crack of the harp colliding with Zachariah's skull, not the adrenaline still thrumming through his veins, not Lucifer or Lilith or the Apocalypse. Blue eyes fixed upon his face, pupils blown wide in pain and all Dean could think of then was how he _never_ wanted to hear his name spoken like that again, in a half murmur pulled up from within the hollow cavern of the angel's chest. "Yeah, it's me." Dean's voice was shot to hell, like he'd been the one having a limb twisted weirdly at a grotesque angle and at the very memory of Castiel's beautiful, maimed wing, his grip tightened on the angel's arm; his anger flared once more. "It's alright; the bastard's gone, just take it easy."

Something like a shudder passed through Castiel's frame at the mention of his superior and Dean felt something undulate through his consciousness; the hunter swore quietly under his breath because it was a flickering light bulb, a mere ripple across a pool of stagnant water when it had once been enough to make the Red Sea part. Gone was the strength he'd once seen on display in the mere shadows of unfurling wings, the opalescent appendages that were now torn and crimson and wet in a way that was far too real, far too human. _C'mon, Cas. You can do it, don't let that son of a bitch get to you. You can do it, just… mojo yourself back together again. _

He had an odd feeling of being the Anne Sullivan to Helen Keller as the angel seemed to react in response to his unspoken encouragement, unsteadily lifting a bloody hand away from Dean's jacket sleeve. The hunter resisted the urge to flinch because holy shit, it was creepy to have bloodstained fingers inching toward his face- but as two digits pressed against his forehead, a flutter of relief swelled inside Dean's gut because at least something was the same.

It didn't last long though, because right before the two defied biology and physics like Harry freakin' Potter, Dean blinked and saw shards of pain, the trust he'd never really earned and staggering blind faith in the sapphire depths staring back at him. "Sam," Castiel whispered, faintly and yet coherent at the same time; insistent and in earnest. "_We have to find Sam_."

* * *

Contrary to what many believed, actions didn't speak louder than words, appearances weren't everything, money _could_ buy happiness (or something pretty damn close to it), lying wasn't a sin and Belial was most definitely not enjoying the sight of Lilith cowering at his feet, the convent's cold grey floor dirtying the knees of her white prom dress.

"Please," Lilith sniffed pitiously, looking up through her lashes with wide, watery eyes in a manner not unlike a child who'd just figured out that her perfect little clever scheme was doomed to fail from the start. Mascara smudged dark raccoon-like circles under her eyes and streaked down her face, framed by a tangled mass of loose blonde curls. "I can do it, just give me more time,_ please_-" Her vessel's face, which was attractive in the woman's own right, was now contorted in fear and she looked like a real nutcase. Belial couldn't help the smirk that twitched at the corner of his lips. Oh no, he wasn't enjoying this little spectacle _at all_.

Sure. And when the Prince of Darkness rose, Lucifer would take on the form of Her Majesty the Queen of England.

"Don't plead, Lilith," the superior demon drawled, casting a lackadaisical glance about the interior of the convent's sanctuary. "Not only is such behavior demeaning, but you're embarrassing me as well." Thomas Hartley's eyes locked on the golden crucifix affixed to the wall above the altar and Belial pursed his lips in annoyance, jade green orbs rolling back to expose white. The copper ornament hissed, steaming as it melted and folded inward upon itself. He turned away, pleased, and directed his attention back to the main source of his entertainment who seemed an inch away from licking the soles of his shoes.

A milky white clashed with his then as Lilith lifted her head and lunged upwards, fingers curled into clawed contortions that clutched the other's wrist. "We made a deal," the demon girl hissed, the remnants of defiance mingled with the urgency coating her tone. "The rules are that-"

"I recall the regulations with great clarity, given that I wrote more than half of them." Belial interrupted, easily unclenching Lilith's fingers and peeling them away from his cuffs, digit by digit. "And if my memory serves me correctly, the ones regarding contracts specify that once a deal is made it must be carried out, yes?" He was now simultaneously gripping and holding her up by a delicate little pinky finger, staring disdainfully down at her disheveled appearance. "I asked you a question, my dear."

The reply came in the form of a low growl. "You agreed to bringing all of this to a close with me, to preventing the breaking of the final seal, to stopping Lucifer-"

"Did I?" Belial cut in amiably, casually; the temptation of the serpent in the garden, guile and sin disguised behind the beauty of the scales and oily words. "The terms of the agreement held no such context; my half of the accord was to merely dispose of Sam Winchester's girl." He released the other and raised an appraising eyebrow as Lilith hit her knees again. "There seems to have been an awful lot of fine print in our little contract…loopholes that I was unaware of." He crooked a finger underneath Lilith's chin in a phony gesture of seeking understanding. The smirk was back at full force. "You _really_ thought that I couldn't see through your little ploy?"

A sudden, but slow-moving wave of terror seeped into and spread across Lilith's features, starting with the glimmer of panic in her eyes and moving onto the flare of nostrils as the demon drew in a sharp breath, in the slack of her jaw and way white, bloodless lips pressed against each other tightly. It was like watching the wave of the tsunami crashing over buildings or when some unfortunate girl happened upon the fact that her psycho boyfriend had caught her cheating on him with another guy, the same _shit, shit, __**shit**_ expression that Belial had seen so many individuals donning after the false assumption that pulling one over on the lord of lies was a good idea.

Belial chuckled low in the back of his throat, fingers moving to mold around the supple column of Lilith's neck. "Poor little girl," the superior demon crooned mockingly. "You thought you had it all figured out, didn't you? Having me jump through hoops while dangling the reward of an angel over my head, turning me into your little trick-performing circus monkey?" She opened her mouth to speak but Belial pressed his thumb firmly against the lesser demon's trachea, finding incredible hilarity in the way her eyes bugged. "Allow me to enlighten you, my darling," he said softly. "Tricks are what whores do for lucre and take a good look about you, Lilith- who's the one on her knees now?"

"Belial-"

"You haven't been the first one to try," he mused aloud with a thoughtful shake of the head. "Sometimes I forget the utter stupidity I've been presented with over the course of so many years." He released the lesser demon and counted off on his fingers. "Jezebel, Achilles…Cleopatra- my, my; _she_ thought she was a clever one…" Belial's eyes narrowed as he gazed down the long stretch of the hallway, at the figure rapidly approaching with long, angry strides. "But don't worry dear sister, I can be forgiving." _And here he is, right on time._ "However, I have a feeling he may not be so lenient."

Lilith whirled around and her eyes flew even wider upon seeing the broad frame looming in the dimness of the passageway. "No!" she shrieked in a frenzy, clamoring to her feet. "We had a deal, Belial!" With a careless flick of her wrist, the double doors slammed haphazardly shut and she rounded on her superior with mindless desperation, fists clenched and pounding against Thomas Hartley's chest like a madwoman. "You gave me your _word_, you lying bastard!"

"And you would trust the word of a lying bastard?" Belial replied, highly amused- just as the doors banged open again to reveal Sam Winchester standing upon the threshold, jaw set tight and hard eyes that the superior knew would soon be shifting to black, lips curling back in an almost animalistic snarl to grind out one word:

"_You_."

So obviously the hunter recognized him, despite the change in meatsuits. _Smart lad. _Congenially, Belial stepped away from Lilith and smiled cordially, spreading his arms wide in a gesture of welcome while uttering a simple affirmation of bemusement. "Me."

* * *

_Holy shit holy shit holy shit I'm gonna be sick-_ Dean's eyes were slammed shut against everything but the light shone brighter than a thousand mega watt bulb, scorching against his eyelids, illuminating the veins that ran through the thin flap of skin as he tumbled through both time and space, cartwheeling madly in a way that human beings were clearly not supposed to move. The instant his feet touched something that held the slightest bit of resemblance to solid ground, the hunter wrenched away from the all-consuming dazzle to spin wildly into the darkness of reality.

Letting out the breath he hadn't known that he'd been holding, the elder Winchester tucked his head between his knees, gulping in sweet oxygen while trying to keep whatever scraps of food leftover in his stomach from reappearing all over the floor, suddenly remembering yet once again just why he hated flying. _Beam me up, Scotty_, he thought dryly, inhaling sharply through his nose. Couldn't the angels come up with some other form of teleportation without the side effects of airsickness? _Talk about swooping in on a wing and a prayer… _

Wing. Prayer. _Cas._ He lifted his head cautiously, as he'd been taught to do so his entire life and scanned his shadowed surroundings, finding himself alone in the gloom. "Cas?"

There was no sign of the angel; no sound of flapping wings over the steady beeping of a heart monitor in what Dean now realized to be a private hospital room. Out of all places, why oh why did it _always_ have to be a hospital? He was neither entering into the world nor leaving it; he wasn't here to preserve another person's life and he sure as hell wasn't here to give birth, so why did he always seem to be showing up here?

"_We have to find Sam."_

Castiel's voice, choked with pain and sounding like it was being dragged over broken glass rang out in his mind and Dean's head jerked in the direction of the silhouette of the bed, terror freezing the blood in his veins. _No. Sam-_ Then he was propelling rapidly through space again, except this time he was tripping over his own two feet, lurching toward the mummy-like figure with tubes winding in and out among the strips of gauze and bandages. His hands were clenched onto the plastic railing to keep them from shaking, to hold himself up on knees that refused to cease knocking together, to keep himself standing.

Even though the younger Winchester had turned away and walked out on him (_again_, his mind unhelpfully supplied, although the circumstances this time around were a lot different from a four year university degree), even though he'd chosen a demon bitch over Dean (_okay, that one actually hurt a lot_), even if he turned into some yellow-eyed stranger or the freakin' Antichrist, he was still a hunter. Even if he was no longer the Sammy that Dean had once let have the last of the Lucky Charms or the Sammy that had vowed to save his older brother's soul (_"I'm not gonna let you go to Hell, Dean!"_), he was still Sam Winchester and to Dean, that _meant_ something, no matter what.

"She was the sixty-fifth seal."

The gravelly voice, breathless and tight with pain, came from across the bed and the hunter's eyes flickered up to take in the angel's barely upright form, slightly slouched with one shoulder lower than the other, evidence of the weight of a broken wing. If he squinted slightly against the darkness, he could see the several dark wisps of shadow brushing against the ground (_feathers_) but in that one terrible instant, with Dean's horrified train of thought was running wild, only one thing registered.

"She?" He croaked out hoarsely, turning his gaze back to gauge the motionless patient. Unless Sam had become anorexic and discovered some way to lop off about half the width of his shoulders and a foot off of his height, it was highly doubtful that this was his brother. And if the physical proof wasn't validity enough (since half the time these days Dean didn't know whether he could trust his own senses or discernment between truth and lies anymore), he'd just received confirmation- in a roundabout way, to be sure- that unless the younger Winchester had decided to suddenly switch genders on the eve of the Apocalypse, this most definitely _wasn't_ Sam. But if not Sam, then…

"Why are we here, Cas?"

He ignored Dean's question for the time being, letting the inquiry curl and die in silence, partially because he didn't have the answer himself. Standing there and gazing at the mere shell of the young woman who'd been the vessel of the messenger of the Lord, Castiel registered another emotion, this one scraping deep and so raw that it was nearly a physical hurt. _Gabriel… _

The archangel was obviously absent, having already left his host before the demons set upon her, destroying the woman's physical body and breaking yet another seal, bringing Lucifer closer to rising- and Castiel now truly had not one of his brethren left to turn to. He'd turned his back upon everything he'd ever known, betrayed one of his commanders and thus the entirety of his kin for this hunter whose passionate soul was aflame with fierce protection and love for his younger brother. The name for the feeling struck suddenly, sharp and swift- it was the helplessness of a sheep without its shepherd, the terror of a child separated from those who looked after him, it was not knowing where to turn or what to do after breaking free from the bonds of absolute obedience- feeling _lost_, as servility was all he'd ever known.

"_I will praise the Lord, who counsels me; even at night my heart instructs me. I have set the Lord always before me. Because he is at my right hand, I will not be shaken." _

But God was not present to bestow instruction or discipline upon his wayward sons; Gabriel was not here to guide and counsel his younger brother. Now, here in the darkness of the night, barely able to stay standing as his left wing dragged uselessly against the ground, Castiel saw nothing save for hazel green eyes staring back at him; nothing was set before him besides the one who bore his mark, the soul he'd once saved from the depths of damnation and who'd now in turn pulled him from the clutches of doubt and despair. _Dean Winchester is my charge and he shall be my path, my guide, and my counsel. This then, is the direction you have set for me, Father, and I shall follow… with or without my brothers. _

A pang of sorrow streaked through his consciousness at seeing Marie Elena Cortez's shattered soul still trapped within its mortal confines instead of residing within the fields of Elysium and so Castiel reached out, laying a hand on the young woman's forehead with a murmur of benediction. "Rest now, daughter of Eve. Your work is done." It was the least that could be offered unto one who had willingly given all of herself for the sake of mankind, only to have fallen to Heaven's will for Lucifer's ascent. _Réquiem ætérnam dona ei Dómine; et lux perpétua lúceat…_

But then he hesitated, for the shards of light remaining within this physical body did not feel like any other soul he'd ever encountered before and Castiel probed gently at the edges of the scattered fragments, feeling the pieces slowly fitting together under his hand as if they knew his touch. Something was calling out to him, a summon that none but his own soul could discern and it rang out like a thunderous shout veiled in an infinitesimal whisper-

"_**CASTIEL."**_

Dean watched the other frown; a puckering of the skin of his brow, and it seemed natural on the stoic celestial being's face. Even though there was already a churning feeling in the pit of the hunter's gut-that was _obviously_ nothing like women's intuition because Dean Winchester was as manly as they came- telling him there was something epically wrong with the whole situation, it wasn't until Castiel's head sank forward and his knees gave out that Dean hurled himself around the end of the hospital bed with the speed of a man (_so __**not**__ the time for puns_) possessed.

"Cas! Hey!"

Grabbing Castiel's arm, Dean jerked his hand away from the apparently dangerous she-mummy and turned him around, noticing that the angel's other hand that had been resting on the railing of the bed had crushed the plastic into flat nothingness. _Shit. C'mon Cas, snap out of it._ He grabbed the sides of the other's face, shaking the angel slightly. "Cas, look at me!" The iron digits moved from the flattened railing to his wrist and Dean winced. _Dude, I'm gonna need that arm-_

"Sam," Castiel breathed heavily, sweat beading his brow and features tight in pain or else a really ill timed case of a ruptured spleen, Dean couldn't tell. "We have to stop him from killing Lilith."

He gaped, incredulous. _Okay…so it's pain._ Castiel had finally gone delirious with pain and what were they supposed to do now, with a helpless mudmonkey and a fast-fading angel of the Lord? "But she's going to break the final seal; let Sam gank the bitch and we'll-"

"Lilith _is_ the final seal!" Castiel wheezed in desperation, raising his head and looking directly into Dean's disbelieving eyes, jaw set in determination, so very much like when he initially entered into the hunter's life in a shower of sparks, bearing the message of the will of Heaven for the first time. _There is no time for argument, Dean._ "She dies, the end begins."

Dean was sure that this was a real attractive look, what with the whole deer in the headlights look, slack jaw and all; it was one that would really win over the ladies and why the hell was that thought even processing through his brain right now? _Those sons of bitches. _So what, was Lilith supposed to stay alive now? Next thing he knew, those dicks with wings would be telling him the only way to stop the Apocalypse would be to go skinny dipping in Old Faithful or to lick his elbow without breaking his back and…_and why does the freakin' floor feel like it's shaking?_

…Probably because the floor _was_ shaking. The heart monitor went flat as the room continued rumbling like the ground was about to split in two underneath his feet, a sound like a gigantic flat screen and its surround-sound system going absolutely crazy assailed his ears; light poured into the room through every crack in the wall that was supposed to be solid brick and mortar and plaster, illuminating all that its rays touched. _What the hell?! _

Castiel went rigid under his hand and Dean glanced at him just as the angel spoke three words that he somehow heard above all the noise. "_It's the archangel_."

The archangel. Proud and able instruments of God, Heaven's most terrifying weapon, yadda yadda yadda- Dean had read and done his fair share of researching because he wasn't _stupid_ or anything, just relatively unimpressed. In this instant though, eyes fixed on Castiel's sheet-white face and terrified, bloodshot eyes, all Dean could think despite everything that had already happened was how wrong it was to see an angel, this angel, _his_ angel (who was, for the record, worth a hell of a lot more than any weapon of Heaven)- for lack of better words, 'cause he'd never been that skilled of an orator- scared shitless.

But Castiel was rounding on him with an urgency unsurpassed, blue eyes wide and filled with panic and yet focused in the sole task of what he had to tell the hunter. "St. Mary's convent." The angel then straightened, pulling strength and will from God knows where, pulling himself up to his (or his vessel's) full height, looking both fearless and terrified at the same time, full warrior and foolish kamikaze pilot about to embark on a suicide mission for the sake of honor and dignity and everything else that was so full of _shit_- "Go to your brother, Dean!" The whine grew louder, the mini-earthquake more insistent and Castiel's voice rose. "I'LL HOLD THEM OFF, I'LL HOLD THEM _ALL_ OFF!"

"Like _HELL_ I'm going anywhere!" Dean yelled back, answer quick and sharp and immediate because he knew Castiel was unable to fight off or even against an archangel; he was pretty much incapable of doing _anything_ in the poor state he was in and it wasn't like he was exactly stellar at fisticuffs even when in prime condition. For his part, Dean wouldn't leave the angel here to fend on his own. He _couldn't_.

A particularly fierce shake rattled the entire room and Castiel staggered, pitching forward uncontrollably and falling against Dean rather gracelessly. The hunter grunted, somehow ending up with an elbow in his ribs and one hand landing on the angel's arm, trying to steady him, Castiel's chin coming over his shoulder as his did pretty much the same and he froze, staring at the shadow of the angel's form, cast against the ground- the silhouettes of two feathery appendages, one large and unfurling outwards as the other hung limp, heavy in uselessness.

"Please, Dean." The words were mere puffs of breath right next to his ear but Dean couldn't move, his eyes were transfixed on the one functioning wing as it curled defensively around him and he swore he could almost feel something brushing against his back. "Just this one time, do what I ask of you. _Please._" Castiel sounded exhausted and wrecked and so fucking far from being okay that Dean wanted to turn around and take on these sons of bitches himself, come hell or high water- _ha, Hell coming...right, not appropriate_.

"_Just stop Sam._"

And so just like that, with three clicks of the ruby slippers Dean suddenly had a dirt road underneath his feet and a clear yet starless sky above his head, standing in the middle of God knows where with a fallen down, decrepit looking building in front of him and with Castiel left behind. _Goddamn it, Cas- you reckless bastard!_ He was pissed at and terrified for the idiot angel who seemed to have feathers for brains or else no sense of self-preservation at all; honestly, did Castiel not know that he sucked ass at being violent? What was Dean supposed to do if he did meet with the Big Guy upstairs someday, say _oh by the way, sorry about leaving behind your most faithful angel to get ripped apart by a bunch of the other mutinous dicks with wings like drunk frat boys going after the last piece of pizza?_

Turning, the hunter then did the only thing he could do at this point in the angels' game- which by the way was one that he'd like to quit, thank you very much, because it _sucked_- he did what Castiel said, what Castiel had ordered, what he had pleaded. Legs pumping furiously and heart leaping up into his throat, Dean raced against time and reality and both angels and demons to stop his little brother.

* * *

Castiel was on his hands and knees once again, having fallen without support. His back was a field of fire and invisible agony; each tongue of flame had a voice and was screaming out, screaming in pain and fear because his faith was faltering, his heart was failing and everything, absolutely everything hurt, hurt, _hurt_.

_For the Lord loves the just and will not forsake his faithful ones. They will be protected forever…_

The light grew brighter, spilling out from a place beyond the sky, beyond the stratosphere and the realm of human imagination but while Castiel would have once reveled in the barest hint of Paradise's beauty, now he felt naught but dread. _Father, be with me now. Give me strength._

"_**CASTIEL. JUDAS. SINNER. TRAITOR. CASTIEL.**_"

Raising his head, he saw a thousand of his brethren descending from the very gates of Heaven, all the strongest and fiercest of the Host. At their head came Gabriel, archangel and messenger of Almighty God, Heaven's most terrifying weapon- with flaming sword drawn and at hand to destroy he who had dared to disobey the will of Heaven.

_A/N: I lied, this is NOT the final chapter! _

_Okay, I believe two things are in order: first, a heartfelt apology and second, an explanation. I'M SO SORRY!! Okay, now that I've thoroughly abused the caps lock key, let me just say it again- I'm incredibly sorry for making everyone wait without warning. It's been a full four weeks and such a long hiatus will never happen again. I should have warned everyone that I was starting University and it's taken a while to get used to balancing out my schedule and the lovely infection that has decided to make itself right at home in my sinuses isn't helping anything. But don't worry; the next chapter (and it will be the last one, of that I'm sure) will most definitely be coming out next Thursday, right on schedule. Thank you for bearing with me and let me just say that I will NEVER leave a story hanging like this without any type of closure, so don't worry! Please review and check back next week for the final chapter! _


	13. End

_A/N: I'm back!!! I know, I know; this chapter is LONG overdue and all I can do is thank each and every one of you for your patience and get right to the chapter itself. Enjoy!_

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke_

One could see the evidence of it in every single aspect of daily life and illuminated throughout the long and prestigious eons of human history- man's ability to constantly push the boundaries beyond what he had already achieved was remarkable and indeed he left his mark upon the Earth's surface and beneath it; even beyond into the furthest stretches of the skies above. Man had explored the final frontier, delving deep into black holes and mapping out the pathways of neuronal networks in the brain, puzzling out the tiniest intricacies of how to split an atom and created weapons that could destroy his entire race from such seeds of tenacity, of creativity, of genius.

More often than not though, when standing at the foot of the mountain of his own successes and triumphs, man forgot to whom all glory and honor should be ascribed; he forgot who'd given him the talent and the skill to complete all these miraculous wonders that caused others to extol his praises. Acceptance speeches of gratitude always mentioned the thoughtful and loving spouse, the wonderfully adorable children who meant the world to the accomplished and of course the parents, without whom the individual obviously would not be there- the sometimes annoying but ultimately good-hearted mother and firm-handed yet proud father- how strange then, that he was so quick to neglect and put out of mind all that his Heavenly Father had done for him.

The sons of sanctified flame bore no such capabilities for imagination or innovation; while they once held the same rights and will as the favored children of the Almighty, after the Fall from grace, the angels of the Lord became soldiers molded for the purpose of working in accordance with and the dispensing of His holy wrath. They knew no compassion or mercy once the Lord's messenger spoke God's Word and blew the trumpet of judgment; they were warriors locked in an eternal battle against their fallen brethren, executing orders without question for it was for His will and not theirs that guided their hands, leaving no room for exception, no special cases, no anomalies- even if the perpetrator was one of their own.

After all, had not Lucifer been the brightest and most glorified of all their brethren? Perhaps then it was for their brothers that the soldiers of the Lord held the least tolerance, themselves having long forgotten the love with which their Father had created them. Although admiration and reverence still existed in the rungs of the celestial hierarchy, favor and affection was scarcely heard of and rare indeed.

_It surrounded his entire being, broaching deep past that which the archangel was constituted of and seared deeply into his soul, filling his grace with powerful pulsations of pure holiness. The Lord's messenger was on his knees in submission, head bowed with humility and deference as the voice of God rolled over him, icy lava and solid fluidity, a breathy whisper and yet the same awesome majesty that calmed the chaos of the world, speaking out into the darkness to create the light. Upon receiving the word of the Almighty, Gabriel stood and began to move through the courts of the Lord._

_As the archangel passed by, those who stood near and were not the recipients of any direct orders that Gabriel bore made sure to give the messenger a wide berth- not out of necessity, for the Almighty had created the Heavens to be so spacious that even the entirety of the Host could not fill up its boundaries- but out of deep reverence and high esteem. Few were the number of those among them who'd ever seen the face of the Lord God, and fewer still those who could stand to hear His voice on a regular basis and boast of sitting at the left hand of the throne. _

_Gabriel never boasted though, and such distinction set him apart and as did the archangel's calm, patient demeanor and disposition toward the lesser of his brethren. While Lucifer always had a gaggle of countless admirers following him around in a manner that was most disconcerting to Gabriel, the mighty seraph did little more than ignore his adoring disciples even as they trailed along behind him in an endless stream. Indeed the Morning Star was the brightest and most beautiful of them all, yet Gabriel believed that such fervent devotion and adulation was only appropriate when offered up unto the Lord. As such, it was well-known protocol to wait to be approached by the messenger first._

_Ramiel smiled as the archangel drew near, bright and radiant. That was no reason for Gabriel's pause, for the angel of joy's smile was always beautiful. However, the gentle flicker and rippling in the other's grace that gave indication to a certain amusement was enough to make the messenger halt, bemused. "How now, my sister?"_

_She nodded at something over his shoulder in response, smile widening. "I see you have not yet been able to lose your little shadow, Gabriel."_

_The archangel turned to catch glimpse of that which Ramiel was speaking of, neither vexed nor startled at the sight of the small form that stood a distance away, removed from the two superior celestial beings and yet at the same time obviously waiting as if he wished to draw nearer. The Host of the Lord was, while not infinite, incredibly vast. Although Gabriel was familiar with many of his brothers and sisters through his role of bringing the word of the Almighty to the far corners of Heaven, the archangel was now quite consciously aware of the fact that he did not know this younger brother. _

_He had noted the presence following him around for a while now but the archangel had patiently tolerated the other, waiting until the lesser angel was comfortable enough to approach upon his own accord. As Gabriel laid eyes upon the other for the first time he was struck by the extraordinary purity of the other's soul that emanated a beauty that surpassed even that of Lucifer's magnificence. There was a fire in the young one's grace that pulsed fiercer than Michael's amazing strength, a righteous light that glowed brighter than Ramiel's joy. _

_The eyes that met his were bluer than the skies, deeper than the waters of the ocean that covered the shapeless darkness below Heaven, endless chasms that held more faith and hope than any other Gabriel knew- a perfect reflection of the love of Almighty God. They widened slightly at Gabriel's open, scrutinizing gaze and the lesser angel turned away slightly in embarrassment or perhaps fear of a rebuke, wings trembling slightly. The archangel noted the fragile and delicate quality of the appendages; the sign of a newly created angel and immediately, Gabriel's heart went out to this younger brother with eyes of warm sapphire and a soul molded out of a gentleness and love so amazing and immeasurably divine. _

"_His name is Castiel," Ramiel supplied. She glanced from Gabriel to the lesser angel across the distance. "Our younger brother has been assigned under Zachariah's command; I could have him removed from your presence if-"_

"_No," Gabriel interjected suddenly but quietly. He turned and caught Ramiel's eyes, his face calm and tone neutral. "Let young Castiel do as he wishes."_

_Ramiel scrutinized the archangel closely; not much could be hidden from the angel who also presided over true vision. Many a lesser angel had come under Gabriel's piercing silver stare before, but the look she'd seen flit across the archangel's face was not one of concentration or recognition as the recipient of a message, but…endearment. "You are fond of him," she realized, speaking more to herself than her brother and stood back with a gentle smile as Gabriel departed, the lesser angel still following in his wake. _

Castiel could remember the first time he'd looked into the eyes of the messenger of the Lord, the first time he focused upon the gaze of the archangel Gabriel after having been caught following the other around the hallowed halls of Heaven. Instead of the coldness of Lucifer's indifference or Raphael's arrogant rejection, he recalled finding the welcoming warmth of protection and understanding in this elder brother's regal silver gaze, but most surprising of all, was the genuine affection there, the closest thing reminiscent of the love with which Castiel had felt when his Father had created him.

But as he knelt here before the proud and mighty archangel of Almighty God, even through the agony of the pain, Castiel could see none of what he remembered in Gabriel's eyes; now there was only a wall of stone cold impassivity and resolve.

"Thou has betrayed Heaven," Gabriel spoke, and the voice of the Lord's messenger shot through the mortar and concrete framework of the building, crumbling that which had been constructed by the hands mere mortals; it rolled over Castiel like the destructive winds of a powerful squall, of a typhoon that sought to strip the Earth bare of everything. His tone was devoid of judgment or anger, unnervingly calm and decidedly still majestic- but still, just…_blank_.

The remnants of another voice still rung in his ears though, and it was from this source that Castiel drew his strength, the voice that he'd first heard in the bowels of Hell, made rough from thirty years of screaming out for Sammy and another ten of inwardly howling in self-loathing as his hands were remade into instruments of destruction. Dean Winchester was not made for uplifting hymns of praise to the Lord for while surely he was an efficient hunter and skilled at a great many things, he certainly did not know how to carry a tune. Over the past year though Castiel had found himself growing accustomed to the nuances of the hunter's manner of speaking, at the inflections in the other's voice whether it was the husky quality of Dean singing off key to Led Zeppelin's _Ramble On_ when he thought no one was there to listen or the way it rose a half step with a note of panic when calling out a warning to his brother.

Dean had apparently thought it necessary to affix the angel with a nickname too, and while Castiel had initially found the moniker somewhat debasing, he'd learned that the act was evidence of the elder Winchester's growing trust and it warmed his soul. Whether Dean spoke out in anger and frustration or relief, whether the hunter was confiding in him in a moment of rare vulnerability or insulting his superiors in Heaven, Castiel could detect that sense of familiarity that surrounded each and every 'Cas'.

"_Cas? Hey! Cas, stay with me. Easy, easy…c'mon, I'm right here. It's alright."_

And, with a pang that struck to the deepest part of his core, Castiel realized through the haze of sense-numbing pain that in Gabriel's accusation just moments prior, there had been neither amity or compassion; he suddenly registered that his elder brother had not even addressed him by name- and was definitely _not_ alright. _Brother, what has happened to you? _"Heaven has betrayed our Father," Castiel responded slowly, and immediately, the instantaneous murmurs that arose in response to the claim were tumultuous.

"BLASPHEMY!" Zachariah's voice thundered out above all the rest. "The wages of disobedience is _death_!" Castiel shuddered at his superior's words but said nothing, did nothing besides continuing to stare steadfastly into Gabriel's carefully guarded mien, searching for a trace of his compassionate elder brother- and finding none.

Gabriel lifted a hand and all those assembled instantly all fell silent, waiting for his response to such blatant heresy. The archangel took a step forward, holy light from his grace illuminating the kneeling lesser angel- but otherwise made no move to do anything more. "Repent, brother," he commanded, "or face thy punishment."

For the first time then, Castiel heard a hint of entreaty in the other's tone, a flicker of something that softened the hard silver gaze and laid bare the plea that lay at the heart of Gabriel's words for a mere instant- _Castiel, brother, __**please**_- Repent. _But I have done nothing wrong; my allegiance is not to Heaven. I remain loyal to our Father; I still serve God. _

"No," Castiel whispered, squaring his shoulders and staring into the face of his elder brother and executioner, sorrowfully watching the slight shadow of hope in Gabriel's eyes die at the refusal that slid out past cracked lips. "I will not."

* * *

"Come to join the party, Sam?" Belial asked cordially, standing his ground calmly as the younger Winchester thundered closer. "I was beginning to think you'd forgotten to save the date." The demon feigned hurt. "You aren't seeing other demons, are you?" He grinned rakishly. "Well, I suppose not, especially after Ruby's…terrible, _terrible_ fate."

_Ruby._ Sam stopped in his steps then, because while he didn't know how the other had found out about Ruby's gruesome death he'd met and dealt with this demon before; he knew the danger of being deceived by the lord of lies himself, of being lulled into a false sense of security while really having played right into the sinister games of Hell's second prince. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Same reason you're here, old sport."

There it was again, the annoying epithet that haunted his dreams along with images of an angel's blue eyes, wide and delirious; the sickening feel of his fingers sliding against the thickness of blood… _Goddamn it!_ He gritted his teeth and channeled the shame into anger; the ghosts of what he'd done in the throes of madness into strength against this monster. "_Liar_." The hunter advanced one step, face darkening threateningly at the memory of the demon's sick perversions- "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't end you right now."

Belial was of a fine pedigree and upbringing (after all, he'd once been a son of the Most High), but still had to try very, _very_ hard to refrain from snorting in derision, mentally listing off a thousand good reasons in answer to the younger Winchester's demand. _The first being that despite all your imagery conceptions concerning your abilities, you still have a __**ways**__ to go, Sammy. Second, my 'end' is just not on the agenda tonight._ "I'm not the enemy here; I've told you that before." The demon sidestepped quickly, pinning the train of Lilith's ridiculous prom spectacle to the ground and displaying the lesser demon to Sam's wrathful glare. "Look, I come bearing a gift." The hunter's eyes redirected and Belial smiled, a flash of perfectly straight pearly whites. "Truce, old sport?"

Sam's eyes slid back and forth between the disheveled blonde crouched on the ground and the foppish prick standing in front of him, mind waging a mini-war over what to do next. Certainly the superior demon had tricked him into nearly destroying an angel of the Lord, but Lilith was the bitch who was trying to raise Lucifer; she was the reason why they were all in this mess in the first place. It hadn't been Belial who set hellhounds on Dean; it hadn't been Belial who killed Ruby. And now here he was, faced with the opportunity to set things straight and he was whiling away the time trying to decide which piece of scum to decimate first-

"I'll deal with you later," the younger Winchester growled, before rounding on Lilith with startling swiftness, swinging his arm through the air. _Today, you pay for what you made my brother go through. _The lesser demon flew through space, skull slamming against the edge of the altar with a satisfying _crunch_. She whirled around, plastered flat against the stone at her back; blonde curls in disarray, eyes wide and pink lips parted slightly in a gasp, trembling with terror at the sight of her executioner.

"I'm sure you will," Belial murmured, sidling along the wall to allow Sam enough room to work. After all the portal's gate would be opening up by means of Lilith's spilt blood, and getting the little whore's bloodstains out of his shoes would certainly be a pain... Suddenly, the demon turned his head, one eyebrow arching at the fast approaching footfalls, the steps of a desperate man pounding against the ground that would soon be opening up underneath them all. _Fashionably late, aren't you, Winchester? Well, better late than never. _A smirk lit up Belial's face; he adjusted his suit jacket and rolled his shoulders, loosening the muscles there. _We can still have fun, just the two of us._

Dean rounded the corner so fast, fingers gripping a nearby statue for support as his ankles twisted the wrong way and he nearly fell flat on his face. _C'mon gravity, don't fail me now._ His eyes lifted, staring down the hallway through the double doors that'd been flung open, and saw them. _Oh…__**shit**_.

"_Lilith __**is**__ the final seal! Go to your brother, Dean! I'll hold them off; I'll hold them ALL off! Just this once, do what I ask of you- and stop Sam!"_

Then he was barreling down the hallway that seemed to stretch on over the expanse of a thousand miles, racing toward his baby brother who stood like Ginormo over Evening Ball Barbie, holding his hand out like some stupid Jedi warrior or something, crushing the life out of the demon, the _final freakin' seal-_

"_SA_-"

Breath could not have been ripped from his lungs in a more abrupt manner if he'd been jumping out of a plane ten thousand feet off the ground and as Dean gasped for oxygen, he was swept off his feet and slammed against rough stone wall, a fly squished beneath an invisible fly swatter. Ruby's knife flew from his grasp and somehow above the pounding of the blood in his ears, the hunter heard the slow, sharp clicks of shoes moving against dull concrete floors in a saunter. Their owner slowly came into focus as the fuzziness in his vision cleared, revealing a friggin' yuppie – the kid who went to only the best prep schools and played polo, who inherited everything on a silver plate - from the slicked back hair and ridiculous monkey suit right down to the buttoned cuff links and damn shit-eating grin. "Dean Winchester," the man drawled, looking his captive up and down like a prize pet poodle and the hunter struggled violently, not knowing whether this was an angel or demon but knowing that it didn't really matter anymore; they were all dicks, anyhow.

"Who the hell are you?"

"No one of consequence, really," Belial replied mildly, fingering the knife within his grasp. _So, this is Dean Winchester; Michael's vessel and the savior of mankind._ The demon had to admit, after giving the hunter a once over, that he was a bit disappointed. The meatsuit was attractive, yes, but given the huge fuss that everyone had been making over this one individual, he'd been expecting someone a bit more impressive- after all, the way his dear Cas had uttered Dean Winchester's name like a prayer for salvation had given Belial the impression that he would be meeting a man who rose above demons and angels alike- not a hunter with calluses on his hands and a soul that reeked of fear and uncertainty and shameful guilt.

_Ah, well. _He shrugged, smiling cordially. "Don't want to steal the thunder from either of our brothers back there; yours is setting up for the grand finale and mine _is_ the final act." The demon flipped the blade over his fingers with nonchalance before raising his head, eyes sliding to white- "Besides, there are far more interesting topics of discussion than my identity." Belial lunged forward, closing the space between his vessel and the wall effortlessly with Dean trapped in between, grabbing Dean's chin and inhaling deeply. "I can _smell_ him on you…" White crashed with hazel green and the demon grinned suddenly, lecherously. "How is my little abused altar boy?"

Dean's own words hit him like a slap in the face and for a moment he just gaped wordlessly, suddenly forgetting that he was being held captive with his feet kicking a foot off the ground, forget about Lilith being the final seal, forgot about _every damn thing_ except for this sneering demon and the words he'd just uttered."Quite a handful, isn't he?" Belial continued lightly, "Yes, I've…checked." He pulled back, contemplatively. "But he does make quite a delightful little bitch, my dear Cas."

It was like someone had twisted that one defective piece ever so slightly for the entire Christmas tree to blaze to life, a million light bulbs of realization sparking on all at once; the parts of the puzzle coming together to reveal that hey, we weren't putting together the image of a lying, traitorous dick with wings but a picture of a misused servant of God whose faith had been exploited up until the point of physical agony and beyond. The bits and pieces of scattered memories all made sense now when staring this demon in the face- Castiel's expressions of hurt and betrayal at his cold mockery; the ugly purple and blue blossoms on the angel's face and neck that now when he thought about it, were friggin' _bite marks_; Zachariah's cruel taunts that held more meaning that Dean could've comprehended at the moment- _Tainted merchandise. Where it's been. Who it's been with._

…_**Christ**__._

Dean felt the rage building inside of him like a physical swelling of his chest; something was wrapping iron bands around his lungs and squeezing for all they were worth. He was seeing red now at how stupid, stupid, _stupid_ was because what he remembered most was Castiel's haunted eyes, blue orbs so filled with guilt and gut-wrenching _shame _that now, knowing why, the hunter wanted nothing more than to double over and empty the contents of his stomach right over this twisted bastard's leather shoes.

Belial chuckled to himself at the dawning realization upon the elder Winchester's face. See now, that was the fun part of being deceptive- the _shit, I fucked up_ looks he'd seen over the course of his existence were simply too hilarious, and the great Dean Winchester was no exception. Suddenly, the demon found himself wondering how Heaven's champion and Chosen warrior could be so thick but just shook his head. _Who knows what the idiots are doing up there anyway? _The hunter's eyes were hardening into slits of cold emerald though; his jaw was clenching and Belial simply waited for what seemed like a very promising outburst of the utmost eloquence. _Come on, old sport. Let me have it._

"You sick son of a bitch," Dean hissed, voice dripping with unmistakable venom. "What, your fuck buddy Lucifer shove his dick down your throat one too many times so now you decide to go all Clockwork Orange and Brokeback Mountain with-" He cut himself off, unable to find it within him to utter Castiel's nickname after having heard it spewed from the demon's mouth like utter filth.

"Brokeback Mountain? Hm…" Belial mused aloud thoughtfully as he slid the tip of the dagger underneath his fingernail, unimpressed with the tirade. _Seen and heard much worse before. Strike two, Winchester._ "Too much sheep watching and not enough action for me," he announced with all the finality of a movie critic and leered. "I understand you're a man of action yourself, are you _Dean_?"

"_Fuck you_."

That dagger was apparently made of some pretty strong stuff, boasting of the ability to kill demons (well, the lower level peons, that is) and of slicing and dicing better than any other blade. It sunk into the stone wall between Dean's legs, all the way up to the hilt and then Belial's perfectly manicured and lotion-embalmed hands were slamming into the wall on either side of the hunter's head, their faces inches apart. "Here's an idea," the demon smirked, the odor of red wine mixed with cinnamon and the distinctive stench of sulfur hanging around his person like noxious fumes. "How about I fuck you?"

Dean paled, terror flashing unbridled and unchecked across his face in one split second- memories of being ripped apart from top to bottom in Hell while Alastair loomed over him like a grotesque shadow, getting torn apart in ways no one could imagine- and the very real prospect of a repeat performance here. There was nothing to stop this demon from doing anything he wished and at that terrifying realization, he opened his mouth to yell for Sam, his reputation be damned-

-and Belial pressed two fingers against his throat, effortlessly and efficiently freezing his vocal cords. "Relax, old sport" the demon chuckled, amused at his own joke. "You're not my type." He pulled away, smirking when Dean let out an audible shaky breath. "I like them whole and unsullied; fresh." After all, Hell's second prince always demanded, expected, and got the very best- and by whatever means necessary. "Your soul's been rotting away for too long," Belial appraised, brow wrinkled in displeasure. _Strike three…_

"Besides," the demon continued softly, gaze straying down toward the flecks of blood in the vicinity of the other's bicep. Heat flooded his loins and the lust coursed through his vessel like a raging inferno. "There's only been ever been one pure enough to tempt me." It was almost like a confession and Belial extended a hand, laying it gently, almost reverently over the bloodstain.

Dean jerked away, spitting out an enraged, hoarse whisper. "You get _anywhere_ near Castiel again and I swear, I'll make sure you never piss right-" He was cut off by the demon's mocking chuckle and another tap against his throat, caramelizing his larynx and preventing speech.

"Please," Belial rolled his eyes in disgust at the hunter's delusions of grandeur. It really was stunning though, how closely Dean's reaction to the discovery that he wasn't the only one who'd gotten…_close_ with the blue-eyed angel mirrored that of one particular archangel upon the revelation of the fact that Belial wanted more than just a brother in precious, adorable little Castiel. _You're no archangel, Dean Winchester. Don't get off thinking you're going to put the fear of God in me._ _But I do admire the spunk._ "How about this," The demon proposed, grinning graciously as if having an epiphany. "You watch, while I fuck him!"

_Like __**HELL!! **_In a burst of wild strength, Dean wrested free and clenched a fist, intent on reducing the demon's face into a muddle of goopy nothingness for daring to speak so lewdly about an angel, for daring to lay hands on Castiel, for bringing to light the hunter's own wrongs affixing a big 'abuse me' sign right on Castiel's chest. Honed by years of hunting and learning when to expect the unexpected, he was fast.

But Belial was faster.

In the time it takes for a neuron to fire to even begin considering the process of taking a breath, the demon's arm was pressing against his trachea, pinning him to the wall and cutting off any hope of air. "I'll save you a front row seat old sport," Belial breathed in a low voice, everything about him screaming _pedophile_ even though Dean knew Castiel to be as old as time itself and nowhere near being like a child- age wise, anyways. "You know why? I want you to be there when I take his innocence, when I make dear little Cas my own, when I make him _bleed_ like the virgin he is."

Dean tried to kick his feet but the arm pressed harder and he choked, hands scrabbling desperately at the sleeve of the pinstripe suit, at the stupid cuff links that scraped his fingers and drew blood. It wasn't just air he needed, but also for the demon to shut his big mouth-

"I want you to see it when I ravage the one who defied both Heaven and hell for your worthless soul," Belial hissed, mouth right next to the elder Winchester's ear. Medical experts always ascertained that with the deprivation of one sense, the others sharpen and as Dean's vision was going grey with fuzzy yellow spots, all he could hear, all he was capable of focusing on was the demon's voice and the words that burned like acid in his brain. "I'll keep on tearing into that delectable little ass of his until those pretty blue eyes can't see straight, until he loses his voice begging for mercy…"

_No…not going to happen…Cas..._ Dean made an odd croaking sound that was supposed to be a shout of denial, gasping for breath. He felt the demon's breath blasting against the side of his face, icy cold and reeking of sulfur; the son of a bitch was laughing.

"The name is Belial, Dean Winchester, and remember it well- because it's the one you'll hear Castiel screaming when I _fuck_ the angel right out of him."

* * *

"_No?_" Gabriel repeated numbly, horrified. The archangel stared at his younger brother, at the sorrow in the blue eyes he knew so well, at the recognition of redemption and yet the steadfast courage with which it was denied. _Castiel, do not be foolish. Repent, and all will be forgiven. _

It was evident though, that the lesser angel would do no such thing. Shining through the pain that carved its lines deep into his face was the honor he was trying to uphold, the faith he held in Dean Winchester, and the loyalty to their Father- but it was the love so evident there that made the archangel's soul clench in grief- love for his elder brother, for humanity, for all that was good and righteous in the world, all that was worth saving.

Castiel was struggling to his feet, swaying dangerously and the light in his soul flickered unsteadily, the edges ragged and torn. The Lord's messenger burned hot with anger upon seeing the damage so cruelly inflicted upon the other by Zachariah's hand, but he was also filled with the incredible urge to weep. Gabriel wished for nothing more than to fold his younger brother into a comforting embrace, to heal his wings and drive away the doubts that gnawed relentlessly at his pure soul- but he could not. Zachariah was correct in saying that the wages of sin were death, and what greater sin was possible for a son of holy fire to commit than that of disobedience? But there would be no greater agony than striking down his own beloved little brother with the blade of sanctified fire and justice the archangel held and so he pleaded wordlessly, praying for the other to recant. _Brother, please do not force my hand. _

"Brother," Castiel whispered then, and the archangel saw that his younger brother's eyes that were still wide and sapphire blue, but wearied by hardship. While not nearly so naïve as they used to be, Gabriel saw an amazing mercy and staggering kindness that could come from no other soul, a gentleness and selflessness that was as true as the first time the archangel had laid eyes upon him. _I would perish for his soul_. The lesser angel took one unsteady step forward-

-and in immediate response, a thousand of the soldiers of the Lord set upon him, hands reaching out and piercing, renting, tearing to pieces and scattering apart with unfeeling brutality. The archangel Gabriel turned away, head bowed and eyes closed- and yet with all his might, the Lord's messenger could not shut out the cries of unimaginable suffering that flew from the soul of his beloved little brother as the Host destroyed one of their own for daring to trust a man above the will of Heaven.

"_GABRIEL!!" _came Castiel's scream of agony as he was being unmade: a claim of absolution, a plea for release, a cry for salvation that would remain unanswered even as the angels hacked his soul into irrecoverable pieces, even as the hospital was reduced brick by brick to its foundations, even as a tear from the eye of an archangel of the Lord and fell to the earth below.

_A/N: Um…right. Of course Lilith dies and Lucifer is released, but what happens with Dean and Belial? How could Gabriel allow Castiel to die like that? *runs and hides* Don't worry, there will be an epilogue (and a really LONG and important author's note)! Look for the post on Saturday or Sunday. Until then, please review!_


	14. Epilogue

_A/N: Whew, here we are at the last chapter in this installment. This one's a tad bit short in comparison to the others, being the epilogue and all. Thanks for the reviews and be sure to take a glance at the A/N! Enjoy! _

_Disclaimer: Supernatural and all its affiliates belong to Eric Kripke_

She glared up at him, eyes cold and sharp, the fear having long fled her face to be replaced by not resignation, as one would have expected, but bitter mockery. "Are you going to do it, Sam? Gonna tear me open like you did to poor Castiel?"

There was no other end to this story for it had already been written by forces and individuals beyond her control, beyond the control of this idiotic Neanderthal standing above her who had no idea what he was about to do. Too late did Lilith realize that she'd only been another pawn in this astronomical chess game between Heaven and Hell; it was clear now that there was no way to beg, bargain, or maneuver out of this fate- but as long as she was going down, she was going to drag Sam Winchester down with her in a swan song to be remembered, goddamn it- and so she laughed, a taunting trill. "And here I thought only demons got a kick out of ripping people open like raw meat. And what does that make you then, Sammy?"

"_It means you're a monster." _

His jaw clenched shut at the memory of Dean's words, drilling into his skull like a jackhammer against his temple and for a brief flash of an instant, Sam's hand faltered. He blinked rapidly, swallowing tightly to rid his throat of the rather large lump that'd formed- but when he scrutinized the feeling that was spreading outwards from its tightly coiled center right at his lungs, the younger Winchester discovered that it wasn't shame that was coursing through his veins like ice water; it wasn't guilt that was making his hand shake- it was rage.

Lilith had taken away everything that Sam had known his brother to be, she'd taken Dean and sent him along to Alastair, she'd killed Ruby and was going to crush the entire world by releasing Lucifer- so Sam was going to crush her and no matter what, this bitch was going down right here, right now. He reached out, fingers fish hooking around the edges of the demon's filthy soul and feeling the blood pumping faster and faster throughout his system; there was a strange burning behind his eyes but he didn't raise a hand to rub at them, didn't even blink because he had to see it happen, had to see every second of her death.

The sounds of what seemed like a scuffle faintly reached his ears from somewhere behind him, but Sam didn't care. Lilith's lung-rattling rasps for air were all that dominated his hearing; the light was fading from her eyes and he had no time to turn around to investigate what was happening because this was it. Her eyes were dimming as he finally closed his hands into a fist and he kept his gaze trained on the demon as she fell, skull striking hard against the floor because this was the only way of knowing that it was he who ended her and stopped the Apocalypse, halting Lucifer's ascent- his first small gesture towards redemption.

The sweet copper of blood hit his nostrils and Belial turned, releasing his captive as the trail of crimson began to seep out and into its predetermined formation, as if it knew why it had been spilt, for the raising of the Prince of Darkness, splitting open the chasms of the Earth to make way for the Morning Star. "Well done, Sammy," The lord of lies said softly, stepping away from the Winchester who'd broken the first seal to the one who'd just broken the last- "You've set him free."

Dean hit the ground mindlessly, trying to gulp down precious oxygen- but not before the breath was ripped away from his lungs yet again, but not by any immediate constriction, physical or telekinetic, or by any demon mojo- no, it was by torture that stemmed from something deep inside him and the hunter tried curling into a fetal position, mouth open in a silent scream of agony. The eardrum piercing, unbearable screeching of the last splitting seal rent the air, but Dean could focus on nothing at the moment, nothing but what seemed like a thousand tongues of flame licking at his frame and trying to strip away his skin and flesh right down to his very bones and even beneath; scorching and twisting apart, flailing away and laying to waste until nothing would be left.

_Fucking hell-_His eyes were wide open and staring, but all he could see was blinding white ribbons swirling around him and cutting to the deepest level of who he was and unraveling it like a spool of thread. Dean tried to curl into a fetal position, his hand flat over the handprint upon his left bicep, eyes tight and burning with tears that were not his and throat raw from screams he wasn't uttering; his shoulder blades felt connected as one single large, screaming muscle. This was worse than Hell but he knew this feeling strangely enough, could feel it in every raw fiber of his entire being- it felt like dying.

But Dean Winchester knew that it wasn't his own death he was living through, but that of a being far more powerful, a creature composed of holy fire and pure soul beneath the temporary and borrowed suit of bones and skin and flesh. And as that which had touched and connected with the hunter's impure soul and replaced the blemishes with a single handprint- that was the closest thing any living son of Adam knew of Heaven- was put to ruin, the supposedly nerveless scar tissue burned, bled, and died.

* * *

The decimated surroundings looked like New Orleans after Katrina blew through, minus all the water and FEMA's (lack of) rescue efforts; it was the field at Gettysburg although there was but one casualty that could be seen, the white chalkiness of plaster to replace the red of blood. Dust floated upon the air and fell down upon the devastation like grey snow and sirens wailing in the distance mingled with the shrieks of astonishment of those who'd evacuated the building and were waiting outside.

He was crouched among the broken pieces of whitewashed walls and twisted pieces of metal, on his knees beside the sprawled eagle spread figure whose features were frozen in the final moments of pure agony, sapphire blue eyes that had once held so much warmth in love and hope and a faith unparalleled stared emptily up at nothing. Only after the light of one of the souls of a son of fire had been extinguished; only after the accused had ceased his cries for his elder brother and only after the silence had been interrupted by the sensation of the ascent of the Son of Perdition had the Host departed and allowed the archangel to approach the slain traitor.

"_Castiel_._"_

Undisguised grief colored the majestic voice of the Lord's messenger, the voice that was now broken in lament. Gabriel reached out toward his little brother blindly, fingers brushing against the ragged tatters of the other's stripped wings. They disintegrated into ash under the archangel's touch and would have been carried off on the breeze had not Gabriel reached up and caught them, curling his fingers around the cinders before they could be lost to him forever, bringing them down to cradle against his chest. _Little brother, forgive me. _

The sad remains of the other's wings were not the only vestiges that lay in the messenger's grasp, however, and Gabriel gazed down at the swirling silver and blue ribbons he cupped, icy flame and winding bands of energy bestowed before time by the Creator Himself. They formed an swirling orb of flickering light, the shreds of Castiel's grace that his elder brother had spent countless nights searching the far corners of the globe for, resolutely hunting down every single piece that had melted over Sam Winchester's fingers and seeped out of the Jimmy Novak's ragged frame, keeping them safe and tucked close to the archangel's own grace as Gabriel waited for when he would be able to restore his little brother-

- a toilsome task that now, was all for naught.

Castiel may have been able to survive without his grace by relying on faith in their Father alone, but an angel did not exist without a soul.

Bowing his head, Gabriel's eyes closed and the prayer was a murmur, a plea for forgiveness, an entreaty to the Father that probably was not even there to receive it or answer. _"Réquiem æternam dona ei, Dómine.__Et lux perpétua lúceat ei. Requiéscat-"_

_-in pace. Amen." _Finished another voice, not nearly as dignified as that of the Lord's messenger at the Annunciation or any deliverance of the word of the Almighty, but eloquent and resplendent in the present moment in comparison to Gabriel's hoarse whisper. The archangel instantly flew to his feet, turning to stand in defense with mighty sword in hand, enormous wings unfurled and stretching out as if to shelter the empty shell behind them from other eyes.

Lucifer was still a sight to behold in all his regal beauty; eons spent locked away in the darkness of the depths of the Pit had done nothing to change that- but Gabriel was not so easily seduced by his fallen brother's appealing charm or presence, and indeed he'd been one of the few who had never been under the spell of the Morning Star's allure. "Hello, Gabriel."

The other did not respond, penetrating silver gaze trained steadily on each movement Lucifer made and when the Devil took a step forward and craned his neck gracefully to peer over his former brother's shoulder, Gabriel emitted what humanity would have categorized as a _growl_ that caused a ripple in the Pacific ocean to spawn tsunami-sized waves crashing down upon the western coast of North America and the eastern coast of Asia. He stepped fully in front of Castiel's cold vessel, leveling the blade at Lucifer's throat, but the other seemed to take no notice.

"What a shame," Lucifer said softly, eyes lifting to meet Gabriel's. "He was one of the brightest little ones I'd ever seen; so full of faith and love." His gaze was transparent; clear and colorless and yet at the same time filled with all the shifting hues of the visible and invisible light spectrum, changing second by second. "I admit, I was a bit disappointed when he in particular failed to see as I did. He would have proven to be a _fine_ disciple. But then again," He stepped even closer, "_You_ were the one young Castiel always followed around and looked upon with the highest regard, weren't you Gabriel?"

"No," Gabriel bit out curtly, "Castiel only ever followed the word and will of Almighty God."

"Just like you?" The archangel's grace pulsed with raw energy and holy fire and yet Lucifer merely shook his head in pity. "And this is the reward for obedience? This is how our Father repays you, by abandoning Heaven and leaving his messenger to stand here holding the ashes of what used to be his beloved little brother?"

Angels were bound neither by the constraints of the laws of the Earth nor the mortal hourglass of time, and with a swiftness that escaped any form of observation of measurement, Gabriel was standing not an inch away from the Son of Perdition, holy blade barely cutting into Lucifer's being. "Well, well…Castiel _was_ precious to you." The Devil smiled, unperturbed and obviously a gesture of understanding. "I always admired something about you, brother, so allow me a presentation of my goodwill." He raised a hand- and the water in half of the lakes and rivers across the entire continent of the United States turned to ice at the spark of steel in Gabriel's eyes.

"_**No**_**.**"

The Light Bearer spread his hands in a show of benevolence. "You know what I can do, Gabriel. And I do not ask for much in return."

Gabriel's eyes did not soften, and the archangel instead increased pressure on the sword for he knew the same deceptively clean and beautiful hands spread out before him now offering to restore Castiel's soul had been the same hands that tempted and seduced into sin. "Do not tempt me, Lucifer," he warned, and thunder rumbled overhead. "I would rather his soul rest in peace than give him to thee."

Lucifer leaned closer, locking gazes with his former brother. "Look at your little brother, Gabriel. Look at his _face_. He paused, perhaps for rhetorical effect. "Castiel is not at peace."

"_**Thou shalt not have him.**__"_

"Who says that I am going to take him?" The Devil replied slyly. "After all, it is _you_ who will be indebted to me, brother." A moment passed and the words hung heavy in the air, suspended in time. "Well, Gabriel?"

Lucifer was not known as the great tempter for no reason, for as he then moved away from the blade of the Lord's messenger, Gabriel did not move or turn, instead standing as still as though his being was carved from marble as Lucifer approached the empty vessel and placed one hand upon the middle of the cold chest. Warmth and chill met together upon the same air current then, time and space meshing against life and reaching through the veil of existence to grasp that which had already been claimed by death; Gabriel closed his eyes-

_Father, forgive me._

Castiel's lungs expanded with a wheezy inhale and eyelids fluttered closed over blue eyes. Lucifer was gone, nowhere to be seen.

_God Almighty forgive me, I could not abandon my brother…_ Gabriel turned, both pain and joy coloring his grace a conflicted silver at the sight of color flooding back into the pale skin, at sound of a soul stirring and awakening as if from a deep slumber. The archangel took to a knee beside his little brother, gently laying a hand upon Castiel's brow and slipping the other's grace into his soul tenderly, watching as it was eagerly received. _Castiel…my little brother, I would perish for thy soul. _

_A/N: Well, has Gabriel sort of redeemed himself now? How is this deal made with the Devil going to play out? _

_Oh wow, at times I thought this story would never get told in its entirety but here it is, the end. And as season five has already started and everyone knows what happens next there's no real need to continue, right?_

_I'm kidding, I'm kidding. Of course there's going to be a sequel and it's in the works; it'll pick up right after the events of 'I Believe Children are Our Future' and will be titled 'Measures of Reconciliation'. For those of you who've been following along with the series and with the show, it's obvious that I've left out some parts- for example, Chuck. That presents a bit of a problem, given that the Winchesters go back to Chuck's house to look for Castiel and of course, the prophecy concerning Dean being Michael's vessel. However, I'll just have to ask you guys to trust me on this, because but the events from the first episode up until the story's beginning will be revealed throughout the story itself. _

_Thank you for your dedication to this story! Please drop a review! _


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